by Bryn Koning
Roger waited until the door clicked shut behind his assistant, then turned to the burly man sitting across the polished wooden desk from him. “OK, Henry, we’re all set. Any last questions?”
Henry cleared his throat. “You’re sure I—or, whoever—won’t remember anything? I’ve heard stories…these…what do you call them?”
“Instantiation is the term our scientists use.”
“Right. I’ve heard that they have dreams, or something.”
Roger’s smile didn’t waver. “Mr. Margolis, humans have had bad dreams forever. We used to think that they were evil spirits, or the Devil, or repressed emotions leaking from the subconscious. No, dreams are just the brain doing clean-up work. Nowadays we have information bursting from every outlet imaginable.”
He waved towards his plate-glass window. Billboards and holo-projections sprouted from the cityscape like weeds from an old-fashioned lawn, and even through the heavy windows they could hear advertisements blaring from street level.
“Dreams,” Roger continued, “are a natural byproduct of so much stimulation. I’ll show you. Can you remind me of your address?”
“1142 Hunter Ave. Unit C15.”
Roger’s eyes glazed over. “Ah,” he said. “Very charming. Gray stone facade, copper accents, nice view of Rocata Park?”
Henry smiled ruefully. “A view. Don’t know if I would call it nice.”
“People kill for any view these days. At any rate, I see twenty-three advertising platforms within sight of your main window. And their current campaigns…let’s see…I’m going to guess the last dream you had was about your teeth. You imagined them shattering like glass.”
“How did you—”
“I studied advertising before I got into this business,” Roger interrupted, his eyes clearing and refocusing. “There are entire courses on subliminal messaging. Stuff that sounds like voodoo. It gives everyone bad dreams, which is one of the reasons I don’t do it anymore. But to get back to my main point, all we want are your skills, your expertise, and your experience. Not your memories. And in return, you get to live the rest of your life in luxury. I know you’ve thought about what you want to do with it.”
Henry looked down with a shy smile. “Maine. I have a spot picked out.”
“Ah,” Roger said, nodding, “Beautiful country up there.”
“Nothing but fresh air and fir trees for three miles in every direction.” He took a deep breath through his nose, as if he were already in the forest.
Roger let the moment linger, then piped up again. “That sounds incredible, Henry. I mean, you went through school, then, what, four years in college?”
“Six,” Henry grumbled, looking back up at him. “I wanted my Master’s.”
“Then straight into the job market. You’ve spent your whole working life trying to dodge layoffs…outsourcing…AI. You’re a top-tier chemical engineer and you live in an apartment, assaulted by ads which give you bad dreams. You strain for your little view of something green. And now you can get much more than that.”
“I just—“
Roger’s voice dropped, became more casual. “Look, Henry, if I remember right, you’re not religious?”
“No.”
“Any belief in reincarnation or anything like that?”
“No.”
“Good. I mean, I respect people who do. This program wouldn’t be for them. But for those of us who don’t, well, this life is all we got, ya know? All we’re asking is for your permission to use your leftovers. Like organ donation. We made that mandatory, and everyone’s better for it.”
Henry nodded through the last part of Roger’s spiel, then stared down at the paper in front of him. Roger had seen this enough to know what the man would be looking at: first the empty signature line, then the very large number placed prominently top center, then a quick scan over the terms and conditions, another look at the number, then back to the blank line. Finally, he picked up the pen and signed.
“Excellent! Your information packet will be sent to you within the week, and the money transferred on the first of the month. Just remember to update your address with us as soon as you find that place in—Maine, you said?”
“That’s right.” Henry smiled and took another deep breath.
Roger tucked the signed paper into a thick legal envelope. “Well, you’ll certainly have enough money to enjoy yourself!”
#
drifting on a steady wind over a bright forest
“Henry James Margolis.”
I’m here
“You have been temporarily instantiated on a neural construct owned by Proteus Technologies and monitored according to the terms of the Intelligence Continuity Act of 2063. Do you understand?”
yes
“Your estate has been prepared according to the terms of the contract which you signed on April 12, 2074. As per the ICA, a biological body has been prepared for your permanent instantiation. You are now required to reaffirm your acceptance of the terms. If you accept, the estate will be distributed and we will commence transfer.”
if I—
“If you refuse, this instantiation will be placed in our holding area pending the legal action outlined in your contract.”
oh
“Do you accept?”
…
“Mr. Margolis, you are required to actively accept before we can proceed.”
…
“Mr. Margolis?”
will I—
“You will not remember.”
#
The woman leaned forward and pounded a fist on Lee’s polished wooden desk. “I don’t understand! Dad had a will! I saw it!”
Lee Westway, Attorney at Law, didn’t bother hiding his frustration. “Unfortunately, Andrea, what you saw is what’s legally referred to as a ‘Memorandum of Wishes.’ It says in the fine print that it’s not legally binding and can be overridden. And it’s not relevant in any case, because legally, he’s not dead.” He turned to the neatly-dressed man seated quietly in the corner of his office. “Feel free to jump in any time, Mr. Jackson.”
The man shifted in his seat, then cleared his throat. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Margolis.” For what it was worth, Lee reflected, he sounded sincere. “Your father contracted with us for various planning services, including trust and estate transfer packages—”
“—stealing our inheritance, you mean!”
“—medical authority, and body disposal. According to the Intelligence Continuity Act, he’s still alive, and we’re simply executing his wishes. All of these are standard practices, legal in 27 states, including Maine and here in California. They’ve been tested in court multiple times and always found valid—”
“Go fuck yourself,” Andrea snarled, rising from her seat. “We’ll see you in court!”
Jackson stood. “That’s certainly your right. Now, if you—”
“How much did he get?” Andrea interrupted, hands clenched, breathing through her nose. “How much? For his soul?”
Jackson sighed. “Mrs. Margolis, I’m not going to address that except to say that the monetary compensation was confidential. Your father could have revealed it, of course, but we’re not at liberty to do so.” He tugged his suit jacket straight. “Now, if you have any more questions or wish to pursue legal action, Mr. Westway has our information.”
Andrea stared at the door, hands still clenched, until the sound of footsteps faded away. Finally, she collapsed into the chair. “So what’s our next step? Can we sue?”
“It’s not that simple, Andrea. Your father signed these documents after a psychological examination and in front of witnesses. One of them is an anti-dispute clause. If you contest anything about the succession, that’s all forfeited and goes into the estate.”
“So what do we keep?”
“A bit of money,” Lee said, shuffling some of the paperwork on his desk. “The house in Maine, although they get all the land around it. And he left a box of mementos, childhood toys, things like that.”
“I just don’t get it. Why would he do this?”
“I’m not sure. I’m sorry, Andrea. If I had known…“
“It’s all right,” she said, starting to sniffle. “We should have asked him more questions about the house. How he got it. I just…I just don’t know. What’s actually happening to him?”
“God only knows. All that matters is that according to the law, what’s on their system is your father. And if Proteus has a…body, they can move…him…onto it, and that’s your father.”
“Will they?”
“I assume so. I don’t see any other reason to do this. I’ll be honest, I don’t know enough about this whole process. I’ll be talking to any experts I can find. But I’m sure there’s something we can do, even if it’s just finding out what’s going to happen.”
Andrea stood. “Please. I just want to make sure he’s OK. I just…I can’t imagine what he’s going through.”
#
running through a dark maze of green
“Henry James Margolis.”
here
“You have been temporarily instantiated on a neural construct owned by Proteus Technologies and monitored according to the terms of the Intelligence Continuity Act of 2063, revised 2256. Do you understand?”
yes
“As per the ICA, a biological body has been prepared for your fourth instantiation. The Disclosure Act of 2294 mandates that we inform you that your current debt is $67,431,579.42, with an estimated time to payoff of forty-seven years.”
I remember—
“Neural reports show no memories. Your activities are categorized as dreams.”
…
“You are now required to reaffirm your acceptance of the terms of the contract you signed during your third instantiation, dated November 15, 2317.”
if I—
“If you refuse, this instantiation will be placed in our holding area pending the legal action outlined in your contract. Do you accept?”
will I—
“You will not remember.”
#
Hank liked his job. It was challenging, but rewarding. Schematics scrolled across his screen, intricate designs spiraling fractally to the subatomic level. He picked one. A holo representation bloomed in front of him. He swiped, pinched, twisted, delicately rearranged. A conductor leading an orchestra.
“Hank?” It was Alan, his supervisor. Alan was nice. Hardly ever yelled at him. Even gave him a day off last month, although Hank hadn’t really known what to do with it and had ended up back at work anyway.
He turned. “Hi, Alan!”
“How’s it going, big guy?” Alan patted him on the shoulder. Hank tried not to wince. His supervisor was strong, and Hank bruised easily.
“Ship-shape!”
“Great! You have that molybdite composite for the Jupiter yards?”
Hank turned back to his screen and called up the appropriate file. “Right here, sir. I got the vibration coefficient twelve percent lower than my original estimate.”
“Perfect! You’re the best in this whole division, you know that?”
Hank blushed. Alan rarely complimented him so strongly. “Thank you, sir!”
Alan pulled a crinkly plastic pouch from his pocket. “The other day you mentioned the dream you had, so I thought you might like this.” He held it out.
Hank took the pouch and frowned at it. “What is it?”
“It’s an old-fashioned scent dispenser. It’s supposed to smell like a tree from back on Earth. Our maintenance crew found it when they were cleaning out an old office.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alan nodded and glanced at the tablet in his hand. “How long do you have left, Hank?”
“Eighty-three years, sir. July 10, 2542.” He had known the date for as long as he could remember.
Alan smiled, as he always did when Hank answered the question. “Good. We’d hate to lose you too soon. Keep up the good work!”
“Thank you, sir,” Hank chirped to Alan’s rapidly retreating back. He looked down at the pouch, then with a quick jerk ripped it open. Inside was a shriveled piece of cardboard. It was in the shape of a tree. Hank leaned in and sniffed.
The smell was faint, but it still sent a tickle up Hank’s back. In his mind’s eye, he could see now…trees, walking through them. Air, thick and floral, flowing into his lungs. Sore feet, but a light mind. Valleys, and hills, and mile after mile of trees…
Almost as soon as it appeared, the smell was gone, and the feeling with it. Hank was back in his office, surrounded by metal walls and warm electronics.
He focused again on the little shard of cardboard. There was a little loop of string on one end. He carefully took the tree and hung it off of the adjustment knob on his desk lamp. It hung there, gently swaying in the wafts of air from the climate control.
Hank shook himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about the tree anymore. Just a dream. Time to get back to work. He smiled as he remembered what Alan had told him. As long as Alan was happy, Hank was happy. He knew some people said bad things about Proteus Technologies, but he certainly couldn’t complain.
© Bryn Koning 2026
Bryn Koning is a tech industry veteran who began writing speculative fiction last year to treat burnout. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and loves puzzles, hockey, and games of all kinds. This is his first published story.
