Blueprints of the Afterlife

living beings shared, the collective unconscious. And one cool way to think of the collective unconscious is as a giant, biological Internet.”

“So you plugged the real Internet into the subconscious Internet?”

“We’re trying to. Instead of plugging these implants into people’s heads that just scream trivia at them 24/7, we’re finding that these subconscious implants work far more mysteriously than we imagined. You know that feeling when you can’t remember a word? When you say you feel there’s something on the tip of your tongue? That’s what this implant feels like all the time. Like there’s always information just behind the screen waiting to burst out but the subconscious is acting in your best interest to hold it back. So tonight, when you said Bicycle Thieves, my implant probably did a quick search of IMDb, then served up that little summary for me.”

“That feeling, though, doesn’t it drive you nuts?”

“I’m learning to manage it. And my implant is only turned on a few hours a day. Started out just a minute or two a day at first, and even at that level it left me exhausted. I got these hellish nightmares. My subconscious had to learn how to use this new tool, this piece of hardware thrust like a space probe into my skull. You can imagine, after millions of years of evolution, suddenly the mind has to deal with this weird little sesame-seed-sized thing that shows up in the cranium. And you’re right, I’d go crazy if I walked around all day feeling like I’d just forgotten what I was going to say.” Rocco paused, but not like he was listening to a distant signal. More like he was listening to something that only came from within himself. “I like you, Abby.”

How romantically science fictiony this all was! Abby leaned in to kiss him.

Abby confronted Kylee as she jerked along through the great hall in an antique-looking electric wheelchair that smelled of burning lubricant.

“Either I see the archives or I’m leaving,” Abby said.

Kylee bumbled into one of the phantasy-art-lined passages. “That would be a shame. You at least have to stick around to see the musical we’re producing in your honor.”

“If there isn’t work for me to do I’ll get out of your way and head home to Vancouver.”

A great bell clanged somewhere on the property. Kylee quickly wheeled herself to the nearest elevator. Federicos rushed through the house, assembling on a balcony overlooking the harbour. Abby pushed her way to the front and saw a squat little freighter pull up to the pier. The captain, a bronzed man in a red-striped shirt and captain’s hat, waved up to the spectators as six Federicos rushed to help unload crates of supplies. There emerged a young nurse carrying a bundle in her arms—the newest Federico. A cheer went up, hugs all around. Accompanied by Federicos beside themselves with excitement, the nurse strode the length of the pier and ascended the steep path to the house with the infant Federico in her arms. When she came to the balcony she handed the baby to Kylee, who quivered in her wheelchair, suppressing tears. The pop star pulled the blanket away from the baby’s face and said, “Oh, my heavens, he’s the most precious baby I have ever seen.” The other Federicos elbowed one another to get a better look, oohing over Federico #631, freshly expelled from the womb of a desperate third-world woman. Once the nurse and the boat departed, and after a few seconds of tickling and cooing, Kylee handed the baby over to one of the Federicos in charge of childcare and wiped her hands on her shawl. “That one seemed a bit underbaked,” she said. “A rush job. We’ll see how he grows. Disperse, everyone. Off to your stupid, like, responsibilities and shit.”

Alone with Kylee, Abby watched the ship disappear on the horizon as a procession of Federicos hauled the supplies to the house. A breeze lifted some strands of hair from Abby’s face and laid them across her shoulder.

“There are no archives,” Abby said.

“True, but I was going to show you what’s left of them. Ready?”

The domed solarium, three stories of steel and glass, was by far the most meticulously maintained wing of the Seaside Love Palace. A hundred species of butterflies colored trees, vines, and blossoms of endangered flora. The thick, peaty air smelled ripe with the sweet scent of decay. A tiled trail led through the foliage to a room-sized peninsula encircled by a crescent-shaped koi pond. When Kylee, Abby, and a Federico arrived at the pond they found a table set for afternoon tea and an ancient man napping in a wheelchair. That he wasn’t actually a corpse astonished Abby. Rare species of moths alighted on his shoulders.

The young Federico poured tea for the group while Kylee shouted at the old man, “Wake up! Wake up, you old queen!” After a minute of this the ancient man began to stir, opening an eye a crack.

“You don’t have to wake him for me,” Abby said.

“Oh, but I do,” Kylee said. “You wanted to see the archives, didn’t you?”

“This is your archivist?”

“No, young thing. This isn’t the archivist. This is the archive. This is Federico #1.”

Abby looked puzzled.

“Ask him something,” Kylee continued. “His brain is a server. You have to put your ear close to his mouth, though. He can only whisper. And you have to shout your question.”

Abby knelt beside the source of all Federicos. “What was Errol Flynn’s first starring role?” she asked.

“Louder, honey,” Kylee said.

“What was Errol Flynn’s first starring role!”

Federico #1’s mouth began to move, just a subtle tremor of the lips and a slight breeze of rank air rising from his throat to indicate words were about to be formulated. “Captain Blood, 1935,” he whispered.

“I thought I was here to recover digital data,” Abby said. “How am I supposed to know what’s lost if it’s all stored in this man’s head?”

“They said you were the best,” Kylee snickered.

“I retrieve digital content, not memories. How am I supposed to figure out what was lost?”

The archives went back to sleep. Kylee shrugged and scooted away, chuckling, with the younger Federico in tow, leaving Abby and #1 alone. Abby checked the level on her recorder then shouted into the archive’s ear, “Recite the Luke Piper transcript!”

After a moment of silence the archive’s lips began to move. Abby positioned her microphone and turned up the volume, listening through the ear buds. “… the tape roll a bit here before we get… Luke? You need anything, Luke? No, I’m fine. I thought we could first talk…” the archive began. Hours vanished into the story of Luke’s search for Mr. Kirkpatrick. Why anyone would go through the trouble to send her here to record this tale was beyond her. She turned the recorder off when it was clear the transcript was complete, then rose to leave. The old Federico grabbed her wrist and trained his gummy eyes on her. “You aren’t the person you think you are,” he said, his voice rising barely above a whisper.

“Let go of me.”

“You’re in superposition.”

A young Federico appeared and removed Abby’s arm from Federico #1’s grip. “Now, now, #1,” he said. “Let’s not traumatize our guest.”

As he was wheeled away, Federico #1 shook his finger at Abby. “You’re somebody else entirely.”

On the stage, gradually brightening footlights brought an abstract cityscape into view. A light burned in the window of an apartment tower where a Federico in a black wig sat drinking tea, clicking on a laptop. Another Federico wearing fake stubble appeared beside the wigged Federico and rubbed his shoulder. Abby, sitting in the balcony beside Kylee, realized these actors were supposed to represent Rocco and herself.

ROCCO

What are you doing, sweetheart?

ABBY (sighing)

Looking for a job. I sure wish there was a better market for a digital-media restorer!

ROCCO

Hey, you’ll find something soon. Don’t give up. Which reminds me. I got this phone call last night from some