Priceless Commodity

Priceless Commodity

By Angela R. Hunt

What is a memory worth? I am not talking in nostalgia. I mean memories stolen from the newly dead.  Memories extracted directly from a dying mind, distilled from breath and cerebral fluids, perhaps even unaware of their transition into death floating gently on a cushion of opium dreams. You could feel their soul within your skin, you could see and feel as they did. You may wander their memories and thoughts, dreams and desires. 

About twenty years ago there was an accident in a lab. A means of pushing the essence out of a body and into radio waves was discovered, at the cost of a scientist’s life. He was never recovered. Most in the scientific community protested further research into transforming a person’s essence into radio waves. A few quietly discussed the ramifications for science. If an individual could be extracted, kept stable as a radio wave, transmitted into different bodies- think of the possibilities! Doctors could become their patients long enough to experience symptoms for themselves! Husbands and wives could end arguments by trading bodies for an hour or two. Prejudice could be ended! Justice would be easier as real memories could be used in a courtroom. Memories rather than verbal testimonies! With bright starry eyes the scientists began to quietly study radio waves and lightening. They worked to mimic the effect in a controlled setting, with equipment set to monitor and record any radio waves emitted  within a target area. 

At first everyone was impressed with the announcement of a successful transfer from body to recording and back. Initially everything seemed to have gone well. Sadly, radio waves were limited and only so much of the man came back. He seemed himself until he was asked several questions. His answers made no sense, suddenly he was furious and shouting! The man never recovered his full wits. Part of who and what he was had been lost. He did not live long after that. It seemed the stress of the transfer put severe stress on his health.

More research was done. Human subjects were not considered safe to use until someone could discern a way to reliably record and transfer the entire essence of an animal without stressing the creature’s physical or mental health. Years passed with quiet research and failed attempts. Clockwork men were made. Machines that could think and dream and build more effective machines. They could create better than we could. We gave them the problem. 

They created a means to record the essence, to access it through computer simulation, to transmit it into a robotic body- where it could have a sort of life after death, for the right price. 

The prices went through the roof on the equipment and hundreds, then thousands opted to get recorded. They picked perfect godlike bodies to transmit into. Bodies that would not age, would easily be repaired, tailored to the buyer’s tastes and monetary investment. 

A black market arose. Some people really want to know what is in someone else’s head. Some people are willing to pay a lot of money to find out personally. Kidnapping, murdering someone and stealing their essence is a capital offense, so it is important to erase the essence when the contract is completed. I never intended to be a Soul Thief. I had been dealing drugs since I was old enough to walk. I had run hustles since I was fifteen. I had been in more than my fair share of fights. I had even killed a few people, admittedly in self defense. 

Even when I made my first harvest and was paid my first fee, I would have sworn it would be my last. I was no monster roaming the night and killing an innocent. I had been playing cards at a local pub. A fight broke out between two men at a table behind me. One of the guys bumped me and spilled my drink. He didn’t apologize, just elbowed me as he squirmed to face his opponent. I was hurting and furious. I hit him over the head with a bottle. Broke the bottle and knocked him out in a bath of foaming amber bubbles. The other guy gestured to me to help carry him out. No one seemed to notice or care about what we were up to. That did seem odd but I was relieved at the lack of scrutiny. We took him out a side door, into a dismal alleyway. We set the unconscious guy down. It started to rain. 

“What do we do now?” I asked, watching the other man pull a small machine from his coat pocket. 

“You hold him while I extract his essence.” He must have noticed my look of denial and shock, as he continued to explain the situation. 

“This guy is the main suspect in a series of murders. There are no living witnesses. No evidence except perhaps his memories. His memories could convict him or set him free with a new, robotic body of his choice at no cost to him. 

I thought that sounded reasonable, but what would I get for helping? I asked. The man said a number. I had to ask him to repeat it before it registered that he was talking billions of dollars. Apparently, there is a subculture that loves to buy and keep libraries of novel souls. Consider them Ghouls or perhaps, modern Grim Reapers. Paying thieves and murderers to capture souls for them to keep and use however they might choose. The more souls I captured, the more rumors I heard. I heard of parties where murderers were transmitted into robotic bodies and slaughtered their hosts rather than behaving like the pampered poisonous pet they were supposed to be. Other stories told of brilliant inventors, talented porn stars, and expert physicians being captured, killed, and kept as servants by the owners of major Corporations. Instead of buying foreign brides, there were now black market robotic wives whose very transmission could be threatened if they did not fulfill their obligations. 

I wrestled with the work. I enjoyed the hunt and challenge of catching and recording human prey. I was spoiled with an income that allowed me to live in luxury and excess. I was troubled by the stories. I was haunted by some of the interactions I saw between the living and the transmitted dead. I tried to drink and drug away the guilt but instead I found myself facing the worst offenses without any masks or deceptions. All the rumors were true. A new client I had never met stopped me from doing the recordings on his unconscious targets. He paid me to leave and set up equipment to do it himself. I gathered my tools and hurried out into the night. When I got to the street I realized I was missing my keys. I went back in. I was in a rush. I didn’t want to be there, something about the guy bothered me. 

I came back in as he was finishing torturing the first person to death. He had recorded the whole experience so he could experience the death from the victim’s side as often as he liked or perhaps to sell it. He was a ghoul, an abomination. He did not hear me come in. He was too focused on his gory task. I slipped out my syringe. He might have felt the pinch as it slipped home. I like to think so. I did not record him. I destroyed the recording he had made. I untied the other two people. I woke them up. Their memories were jumbled. My role in their kidnap was lost in a haze of drugs. 

Ever since then I have been working to take down the black market soul thieves. I’ve been getting by taking bounties on what used to be my peers, working with the Police instead of creating work for them. In my spare time I track down old contracts, I quietly watch to see how the souls I recorded are being treated. If they are treated poorly, I set things as close to right as I can. It is the only way I can stay sane and not drink myself to death with the knowledge of the crimes that I have aided and abetted. I’ve got a lot of work to do before I will be able to sleep peacefully again.