Revitalization and Release

A science fiction short story with themes focused on the afterlife.

You were in the back of the church when the aneurysm ruptured. You liked to sit on your own, away from everyone, and observe the spectacle from a good vantage. The pastor's call, the congregation's response—listening to the stories with vague lessons, and even vaguer relevance to your world—it always made you feel like you were part of something bigger. 

You smelled a pleasant, nutty aroma for a vanishingly small moment, slumped down, and before you hit the floor you were already dead. It took a few moments for the room to realize what the cause of the noise was. As heads started to turn, and gasps filled the air, a few parishioners rushed over to try and help. There was no helping.

The funeral turnout was adequate, respectable even, with some of your family traveling a great distance to mourn your passing and celebrate the fact that you were in a better place now. You hadn't ever truly believed such a place existed, never felt the unshakeable faith you'd seen in others—the certainty that it would eventually become your reality. You liked the idea of it though, and had always hoped that it could.

Your family moved on eventually, but it wasn't easy. It was especially painful and jarring due to the suddenness, but they leaned on their faith and each other to maintain their strength, because it was what they thought you would want. If you were alive, that is assuredly what you would have wanted, but what you wanted did not matter, because you were no longer. Or so it seemed. . .

You awoke startled. Your vision was blinded and blurred, and your ears were humming. Awareness rushed back into you as your mind started to condense out of the wispy cloud of nothingness it had occupied. As your sight slowly came into focus, your hearing still remained obscured. As thoughts returned from their cozy place in the void, they were quickly joined by the unsettling realization that the humming wasn't in your head. You were behind a  large glass panel, and on the edges of your periphery, you could see tangles of wires and rows of twinkling lights.

"Good Morning revitalization patient number 7104523," you heard a disembodied voice say over the steadily fading hum. Revitalization? You knew the word, but had only ever heard it spoken in the context of spas and retreats, which promised it at a premium and inevitably under-delivered.

"Vitals and cognitive load are nominal, now preparing patient's motor functions," the voice continued. It spoke with a distinct indifference—not in a bad way—just in a way that escaped explanation. You felt a pinch in your arm, and with it noticed your entire body slide securely up against reality itself; as if the light tendrils of the air had plucked you cleanly from the ether back to being. There was a few moments pause before the seal of the glass panel broke. Steam emerged from its edges, obscuring the view you had only just started taking in. At this precise moment, as outside air rapidly rushed in to nearly blow out your hearing, you felt unexpectedly normal.

"Please get dressed and proceed to the orientation area. All questions will be resolved  by your orientation associate," is what you had pieced together from the muffled voice while your ears tried to reacclimate. You did not know where you were, you did not know what was happening, but somehow these words had a comforting decisiveness that seemed to make those things matter less. You hesitantly took a step forward through the dissipating steam, into the greatest unknown that could be imagined.

Immediately outside of the chamber was a small room. On the wall, opposite the chamber, you saw a white jumpsuit with the number 7104523 printed in clean black lettering. On your immediate left, you noticed a doorway-sized opening, which appeared to be the only exit. After carefully getting dressed, you exited into a large hallway lined with innumerable doorways alternating on either side. Above each one, a different number was written. To confirm your suspicions you turned to look behind you and saw your own number, 7104523.

On the floor were chevrons, communicating that the direction of travel was to your right. As you ambled forward, you started to peer into the darkened rooms as you passed; just barely able to make out the outline of similar chambers to the one you had exited. After several minutes of traversing the hall, you arrived at a small lobby with a single entrance marked with the words "Orientation Area 710".

The orientation area was a large theater with several thousand seats to select from. On the large front wall read the instructions "Please seat yourself and wait for orientation to commence". You found a seat near the middle of the theater and waited patiently in the dim lighting.

A gentle chime was heard after a few minutes, and the text on the front wall went dark momentarily. The large image of a small balding man in a white lab coat appeared, and your heart skipped a beat, maybe even two. He was smiling wide and blinked at you for a few seconds awkwardly before beginning to speak.

"Greetings, and warmest welcomes on behalf of the Universal Anthropohistorionics Initiative. I am sure you are all as disoriented as a—well, a deer in headlights."

The man enthusiastically swung his right arm with the last phrase to emphasize the expression. He chuckled lightly to himself before looking at his feet, shuffling them, and continuing.

"You have just undergone a revolutionary process we call Revitalization™. I am, regrettably, the first to inform you that the life and world that you remember is no longer. In fact, the body that you once occupied has also been gone for quite some time." The man sounded slightly somber about this fact, but his emotions remained tempered and his facial expressions betrayed the tone.

"You have been revitalized as part of an ongoing and exciting archival initiative: to unearth the history and origins of humanity. Anthropohistorians, such as myself, have developed this process to return past humans to consciousness; in order to gain insight into the worlds and reality in which they existed." The man's tone had shifted toward excited and prideful.

"We are excited to hear your stories and to add them to our ever expanding universal archive. As the archive grows, we find new directions for future revitalizations, and for that, we are ever thankful for your participation." He paused briefly and appeared to take a moment to think, while his eyes subtly darted from side to side.

"After this recording, the orientation associate who is present will answer any and all questions you may have, and will then guide you toward your life interview. Once complete, you will be sent to our release center for processing. Thank you for your participation in our archival initiative, and we hope the process is as painless as possible."

The man smiled a large, exaggerated smile and waved. The wall slowly faded to black, and you were left in a dim silence.

This is the exact moment where panic began to set in, because there was no orientation associate in sight, in fact, there was nobody at all. You had been directed up until this point, and as you looked around the theater, you noticed that the entrance you had come through was gone. You checked closely along the wall, looking for evidence of where it had been. You hoped you might be able to reopen it, but were dismayed to find no indicator that there had been any entrance at all. You were trapped, and so you returned to your seat and sat in quiet contemplation of everything that had happened since waking.

You remained in your seat for what felt like an hour—although it could have just as easily been only a few minutes. Questions swirled around, taking priority only for moments before being drowned out by other questions. What happened to your orientation associate? What was a life interview? Why were you alone? What would it mean to be released? Why would someone design a room that left you unable to exit? Suddenly, while lost in your thoughts, a doorway on the left side of the front wall opened up. Light poured in with an inviting glow, and above the entrance, your cheery next instructions slowly faded in "This way to your life interview!".

Knowing there was no other option, you entered into a hallway. The hall lead to a large waiting room with chairs lining the  wall, and a large reception desk in front of you. A layer of dust caked the desk. Behind the desk was the glow of a hallway just out of sight. The hallway was unlit, but as you approached you noticed a bright light shining at the end of it, and it opened into an empty room with a wooden chair sat in the middle. Upon entering the room, the wall in front  of the chair displayed a message "We thank you for your patience and cooperation, but most importantly for the contributions you make to our archive!" Shortly after sitting down, the message disappeared and the disembodied voice returned.

"Hello again, patient number 7104523, and welcome to your life interview. I trust that your orientation associate has satisfactorily answered your questions and prepared you. I will ask you a series of questions about your life, after which I will await your verbal response. Once the interview is complete you will be able to exit to the release center. Do you understand, or should I repeat myself?"

"There wasn't—ahem—there wasn't an orientation associate," you answered, your throat catching, and surprise crossing your face upon hearing what you sounded like.

"Do you understand, or should I repeat myself?" you heard once more.

"There was no orientation associate. What is all this?" you asked, with slightly more steadiness as the muscles in your throat became more certain.

"Do you understand, or should I repeat myself?" was the harrowing reply that was returned.

You sighed and then breathed deeply, letting trepidation, uncertainty, and perhaps a glimpse of anger take over for just a moment. After gathering yourself, you said the only thing that you confidently knew was not true. You saw no other option.

"I understand" you mumbled, sadness and disappointment echoing between the two simple words.

Questions went on for several hours, asking about many details of your life, some more intimate than others. Asking about you, about people you knew, about major events that had happened in your life, and about your perspective on world events. After each question, there was a slight pause, and then the familiar gentle chime would sound to confirm your response was successfully captured, after which the next question was asked. It seemed like hundreds, maybe thousands, of questions before the interview came to an abrupt end.

"Thank you patient number 7104523, that is all we need from you. Please take the exit and follow the hallway to the release center."

The exit opened down a short hallway, at the end of which was a small room that had the size and appearance of an elevator. You entered and the door closed behind you.

In front of you, a message slowly appeared in familiar crisp lettering.

"Now commencing the release process. . ."

A subtle metallic squeaking sound was heard as vents on the bottom of the walls opened up. Your sad confusion was quickly pierced by the rushing sound of gas being released. As a slightly nutty aroma passed through your respiration, the last thought that entered your panicked mind as the void beckoned for your final return was a single emphatic question.

Why?