How long had he been sitting here? And more importantly, why was he here in the first place? He rubbed his temples, trying to coax the memory. Something about paperwork? A form he needed to file?
“Don‘t worry about it, Harry,” he muttered to himself with a gentle smile. “Mind’s not what it used to be.”
He‘d been having these blank spots more frequently lately. His doctor had mentioned something about it at his last checkup, but Harry couldn’t remember the details of that conversation either. Ironic.
Looking around, he noticed an elderly woman across from him clutching her purse nervously. Harry offered a reassuring nod. “These government offices, they always keep us waiting, don‘t they?” His voice carried the warm, soothing tone he’d perfected over decades of calming anxious pet owners. She relaxed and gave him a grateful smile.
To distract himself, he reached for one of the magazines scattered across the scratched coffee table. The selection was peculiar. “Tomorrow‘s Technology Today,” dated 2157. “The Illustrated London News,” July 15, 1882. A hand-drawn one titled “Orc Daily: Summer Armor Fashion Guide.”
“Someone has an odd sense of humor,” Harry murmured.
The walls were institutional beige. No windows, just recessed lighting and motivational posters that made no sense: “Your Afterlife Is Our Priority” and “Souls Processed With Care Since the Beginning.”
Other people sat scattered throughout the room, most looking as confused as he felt. A young woman wearing what appeared to be antlers rocked a toddler in her lap. A man in Victorian-era clothing checked a pocket watch repeatedly.
Had there been a costume party?
Harry tried to remember his day. He‘d gotten up, fed his cat... or had he? Did he even have a cat anymore? The last one had died years ago, hadn’t it? After Martha passed?
A heaviness settled in his chest at the thought of his late wife. The hospital room, the machines, holding her hand as she...
He shook his head. No use dwelling on that now.
“Dr. Harold Bartholomew Blackstone?” a crisp voice called out.
Harry looked up. When had anyone last used his full name? His patients‘ owners had always called him Dr. Harry.
A young woman stood at the threshold. Daphne, by the name badge clipped to her blouse, clipboard in hand.
“Yes?” he replied, raising his hand slightly.
“We‘re ready for you now.”
He started to rise, but paused, glancing toward the man in Victorian clothing. “Shouldn‘t he go first? He seems to be late for something.”
Daphne offered a polite but practiced smile. “We‘ll see him soon enough, Dr. Blackstone.”
Harry shrugged and pushed himself up, knees creaking, and followed her through a pair of heavy double doors.
“Your file indicates extraordinary karmic balance,” Daphne said, eyes on her clipboard. “That should translate to significant benefits.”
“Karma?” Harry managed, frowning.
“The universe‘s ledger, Dr. Blackstone.”
They emerged into a cavernous office floor. Rows of cubicles stretched as far as he could see. At each desk, a bureaucrat sat opposite a bewildered visitor, tapping at keyboards or riffling through forms. Filing cabinets stood in ranks, stamped with labels like “Souls Pending” and “Transcendence Records.”
Harry paused. Among the lines, he spotted a young woman with pointed ears and silver tattoos. Down the row, a broad-shouldered fellow with deep-green skin fidgeted nervously.
He leaned toward Daphne. “Is there some sort of convention in town?”
She glanced up, lips tight. “Let‘s be respectful, Dr. Blackstone.”
Bureaucrats, he thought wryly. Younger every year.
Daphne escorted him down a short corridor. At the end stood a heavy door with a polished brass nameplate: “Mrs. Destiny Weaver, Soul Processing Agent.” Before he could ask, Daphne ushered him inside.
A woman sat behind an immaculate desk. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. A massive, old-fashioned monitor loomed in front of her, beside it an equally dated tower PC humming softly.
Daphne gestured toward a stiff chair. Harry eased into it, every joint protesting. Without a word, Daphne pulled a sheet from her clipboard, dropped it into a basket on the desk, slipped out, and closed the door.
The sharp clack of keys told Harry that Mrs. Weaver‘s fingers were flying. He cleared his throat, but a single raised hand froze his words. She didn’t look up.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Harry shifted in the chair.
The clacking ceased. Mrs. Weaver raised her head, her face set in a carefully blank mask. She lifted the glasses, perched them on her nose, then picked up the form from the basket and studied it.
Mrs. Weaver tapped a key, and a printer beneath her desk whirred to life. Without looking at Harry, she asked, “UT number?”
Harry blinked. “My what?”
“Universal tracking number?” Her voice carried the resigned patience of someone who‘d explained this countless times.
“My social security?” Harry offered, confused.
Mrs. Weaver let out a long, measured sigh. “Let‘s start again. Name?”
“Dr. Harold Bartholomew Blackstone, but people call me ‘Harry.’”
The typing resumed. “Sex?”
“Male.”
“Age at passing?”
“Passing?” Harry‘s brow furrowed. The word hung in the air, oddly significant.
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The door cracked open. A harried-looking man stuck his head in. “Mrs. Weaver, sorry to interrupt, but the Reincarnation Department is asking about the Johnson file again.”
“Tell them it‘s pending,” she replied without looking up.
Before the door closed, a young woman with unnaturally blue skin poked her head in. “Mrs. Weaver, the Ethereal Transfer is...”
“Not now, Zinnia.” Mrs. Weaver held up one finger. Both retreated.
She adjusted her glasses. “Age, Dr. Blackheart. How old were you today?”
“Seventy-eight...” Harry paused, frowning. “Wait, no. Eighty-six.”
She waited. When no new answer came she moved on. “Married?”
“Widowed,” Harry said softly, his chest tightening. “And it‘s Blackstone. Not Blackheart.”
Mrs. Weaver nodded, tapping away. “Children?”
A smile touched Harry‘s lips. “A lifetime collection of fur babies.”
The typing ceased. Mrs. Weaver removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.
She replaced her glasses and fixed Harry with a stern look. “Dr. Blackheart, we are going to be here for eternity if you cannot take this seriously.”
Harry‘s shoulders slumped. “Sorry. No. No kids. And it’s Blackstone.”
Mrs. Weaver returned to her typing. Harry couldn‘t shake the feeling that something fundamental was happening, something he wasn’t quite grasping.
“Any siblings?”
“A brother,” Harry replied, his voice softening. “But he died when we were young. A boating...”
“Occupation?” Mrs. Weaver interrupted, already moving on.
Harry straightened. “That was rude.”
Her fingers paused. “Your occupation was rude?”
“What? No.” Harry shook his head. “I was a veterinarian. Retired.”
She nodded, typing again. “Residence?”
“1364 Osborne Avenue, Inverness, Florida, 34450,” Harry recited automatically.
Mrs. Weaver stopped typing and stared at him over her glasses, expectation hanging in the air.
“United States?” Harry added uncertainly.
She responded with more rapid typing, then looked back at him.
Harry looked back at her, the silence stretching.
“Earth?” she finally prompted, her voice weary.
“Um... yes.” Harry‘s confusion deepened, a cold sliver of unease sliding down his spine. “Where are we again?”
“We are at the DSR. Are you satisfied with the life you lived?”
“What is the DSR?”
Mrs. Weaver adjusted her glasses. “The Department of Soul Reassignment.”
Harry felt his mouth go dry. “The Department of what?”
“Are we going to be a problem today?”
“I don‘t...” Harry stammered, his heart beginning to race. The implications were starting to break through his confusion. “No.”
“On a scale of alpha to omega, how satisfied are you with the life you lived?”
“Omega?” Harry ventured, completely adrift.
Mrs. Weaver‘s eyebrows shot up. “Oh dear.”
“Alpha?” Harry amended quickly, desperate to provide the right answer.
A small sigh escaped Mrs. Weaver. Outside the office, the muted sounds of bureaucracy continued. Phones ringing, murmured conversations, the rhythmic thud of stamps.
“Are you a member of any organized religion?”
“No.” Harry‘s expression hardened slightly. “My parents were overly religious and I had a bad experience growing up. I avoid churches like the plague.”
She nodded. “What would you say was the most important part of your life?”
Harry didn‘t hesitate. “Since I retired, the blood drives I organize, without question. They’re important. Blood is life itself.”
Mrs. Weaver‘s typing slowed. “Blood? That’s interesting.” The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.
Harry nodded earnestly. “Everyone should donate.”
She fired off more questions in rapid succession. “Do you prefer day or night? Warm or cool? Any food allergies?”
Mrs. Weaver moved briskly through the next section, asking about fears, habits, routines, and hobbies.
Harry answered as best he could. No real phobias except open water, a lingering scar from his brother‘s accident. He described himself as a creature of habit who liked control and predictability. When he was single, he’d enjoyed skydiving. But Martha had insisted he quit.
“Your relationship with animals?”
Harry‘s face softened. “I’ve always had a natural bond with them. Even the difficult ones listened. Cats especially.”
“Would you say you‘re in tune with nature’s rhythms?”
“Absolutely. The moon, the seasons, they‘ve always mattered to me.” He leaned forward and noticed a loose wire dangling behind her computer. “You have a...”
“Do you consider yourself territorial?” she asked, cutting him off.
Harry glanced at the wire again but left it alone. “I suppose I am. My home is my sanctuary, and I‘m particular about who I let in.”
“How do you handle conflict?”
“I avoid it when I can,” he said. “Quiet solutions tend to last longer.”
“If you could change one thing about your biology, what would it be?”
“Our frailty,” Harry said, remembering how weak Martha had been at the end. “We‘re built to break. And don’t get me started on aging.”
The questions kept coming. Eventually Harry lost interest and stopped paying much attention to his own answers. But his focus snapped back at her next question. “Do you have moral qualms about taking a life?”
How long had she been going down this track, he wondered. “Where are we again?”
“We‘ve gone over this. Please answer the question.”
“Everything has to die eventually,” Harry replied, cautiously. “It was a sad part of my profession that I had to end so many precious lives. But it was necessary.”
The rhythmic clacking of Mrs. Weaver‘s keyboard filled the silence. She scrolled through her screen one more time before looking directly at Harry.
“If you could live again, would you?”
Was that an offer? By now he was fairly sure this was a dream or some kind of limbo. A small smile touched his lips as he thought about his life, his work, and Martha. The joy of their time together and the ache of her loss. He shook his head. “No, thank you. I lived a good life. I don‘t need another.”
Mrs. Weaver‘s attention shifted, her eyes narrowing. “Dr. Blackheart, please do not tamper with the equipment.”
Harry glanced down, realizing he had absently reached behind her computer tower again. “You have a loose...” he began.
A sharp pop interrupted him as the ancient monitor flickered and went black. The computer tower gave a final, defeated whir before falling silent in a small puff of smoke. That was bad. He knew you were never supposed to let the smoke out.
Mrs. Weaver just stared at him, her face a mask of controlled displeasure.
“Umm. A wire,” Harry explained, withdrawing his hand quickly. “You had a loose wire.”
Mrs. Weaver continued to stare, unblinking, her glasses reflecting the now-darkened screen.
“Um... sorry,” Harry offered, his shoulders hunching.
With deliberate slowness, Mrs. Weaver leaned to her right, reaching for what appeared to be an old-fashioned brass speaking tube mounted on the wall. She spoke into it, her voice maintaining its professional detachment. “Daphne to my office, please. Immediately.”
Barely thirty seconds passed before the door opened and Daphne appeared, clipboard still in hand. “Yes, Mrs. Weaver?”
“Could you please escort Dr. Blackheart to the waiting area?” Mrs. Weaver requested, her gaze never leaving Harry.
“Blackstone,” Harry corrected automatically.
“Of course,” Mrs. Weaver acknowledged with the faintest nod.
Harry stood awkwardly, his joints protesting. “Should I wait here so we can do the questions again?”
Mrs. Weaver‘s expression shifted into something resembling physical pain. “No. No. Go with Daphne. I’ve got your information.” She glanced at the darkened monitor. “I will refile the form after the tech demons fix my machine.”
Harry furrowed his brow and followed Daphne toward the door. “Tech demons?” he murmured. I guess IT is the same everywhere.
As he stepped into the corridor, Harry glanced back. Mrs. Weaver was watching him through the narrowing gap. Their eyes locked. Her expression was cold, calculating. A thin smile touched her lips. The door clicked shut.
***
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