Afterlife Sentence

by Mike Walston

Art by Francine Lee

The sun was gleaming off the mirror-clad facade of the Pre-Life Center as nineteen-year-old Anne Clarke quickly climbed the steps. She paused at the door long enough to check her reflection, making sure both hair and dress were perfect for the souvenir photos to be taken after the reveal.

Inside the lobby she faced a magnificent mural. The painting depicted translucent figures from a variety of ethnicities and eras right up to modern times. She admired the subtlety of the brushstrokes and imaginative use of colors. It made her wonder how many faces like that were with her now.

At the same time, she hoped her own works would someday be displayed with such prominence. Having been accepted by the Royal College of Art, the future seemed as open-ended as the lives repeated here through so many generations.

She whispered, “So beautifully done.”

“Alice Clarke?”

Turning to the receptionist kiosk beside her, she enthusiastically beamed, “Yes! Am I too early?”

“Not at all,” said the computer speaker. “The orderly will guide you to the regression room.”

Double doors swung open, and a man in a lab coat waited for her.

She followed him into a small white room with a single luxuriously padded chair inside. After making herself comfortable in it, she looked up and saw a silver bowl-shaped mechanism in the ceiling. No other technology was visible.

“The scan will begin momentarily,” said the orderly. “You’ll be able to see the findings of the most recent lifetime on the wall in front of you.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile.

The door closed behind him, and the ceiling apparatus began to gently hum.

The anticipation was overwhelming.

Alice felt privileged for this opportunity and sorry for all those in the past who never got this chance. Despite the various beliefs about a possible afterlife, it wasn’t until regression tech had been perfected that reincarnation became a scientific fact.

The room darkened, and fuzzy images began to take shape on the wall.

She wasn’t delusional enough to believe she was the new embodiment of Leonardo or Rembrandt, as others might. If anything, it was more likely her previous life was that of a pauper, perhaps someone who wanted to paint or sculpt and just lacked the time or resources to have those talents recognized in their time. She might have even been a graffiti artist, using canned spray paints and brick walls as canvases. And now, after all her hard work, she was poised to carry on those aspirations.

The images on the wall became clear.

The screaming intensified until the double doors flew open and Alice Clarke burst into the lobby, nearly knocking over the next patient. The horror on her tear-streaked face made all who saw her rush for the exit.

The orderly caught up and knocked her down before she escaped.

With absurd calmness the computer kiosk said, “Police have been summoned. Please wait patiently.”

“No! Not me!” Alice screamed. “Please! It’s not me!”

The cell door opened, and her grim-faced lawyer entered.

Leaning against a wall of bars, she said, “Nothing, right?”

The lawyer shook his head. “I’m sorry. The final appeal was rejected.”

She still couldn’t believe it. “Nothing in the second scan? No noble ancestors to redeem me?”

Looking at his pad, he explained, “The trial scan only confirmed your actions from your last life—”

“Stop saying that,” she hissed between gritted teeth.

“And no other lifetime would’ve been considered as mitigating evidence regardless.”

She looked at the gray wall beside her bunk with the pencil sketches attached. Faces in moments of serene beauty regarded her with imagined sympathy.

“Nothing from any families?”

The lawyer consulted his pad again. “None of the victims themselves have shown up on any Pre-Life reveals. Given their age, most of them probably never had a chance to have children. The only descendant successfully tracked down refused to offer any appeal for sentencing.”

The faces could only offer smiles.

The warden had been kind enough to give her a pad and pencil for drawing. It helped to transform the twisted, horrifying images she’d seen a year ago on another wall into visages of happiness. A pitiful effort to restore them in the only way she could.

She also needed them when waking up from the nightmares: images of contorted faces, begging for mercy, followed by horrific finger-painting with their blood.

It was unfathomable. Unacceptable.

“Couldn’t they at least give me a life sentence? Even if I’m out of appeals, maybe the laws will be changed in a few years.”

“Because of the nature of the crimes, the sentencing guidelines that existed at the time have to be carried out.”

“What about all those people who were never caught until Pre-Life came along? How many people got a pass that you couldn’t find for me?”

Frustrated, the lawyer pocketed his pad and lectured her like a student. “That’s like expecting courts from the 20th century to throw away DNA evidence because no one had been convicted with it before. Criminologists use every tool available. There’s no turning back the clock. And no lawyer can argue against science the way this was presented.”

Remembering that he was talking to a condemned woman, he softened his tone. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, and I wish—”

“Not again!” she demanded. “I’ve heard all the ‘sorrys’ and ‘unique cases’ and ‘atypicals’ and ‘first times’ to last a dozen lifetimes! No one gets it! I’ve worked and studied all my life. I did everything my parents wanted me to do. I never missed a day of school. Even when I was sick, I went in. I’ve never been in any trouble. I’ve sure as hell never been in a place like this!”

“If you should reincarnate again, your reveal will show that the sentence was carried out and your record will be clear.”

She huffed a laugh. “That assumes a lot. What if Pre-Life becomes the norm for school applications or employer background checks? Who would want to hire a murderer?”

“You’ll be able to pursue your art in another lifetime,” he offered.

“You don’t know that! And why should I have to? Why can’t everyone see that I’m not that person anymore? Everything I’ve accomplished is going to be thrown away!”

She wiped her face before the tear could fall.

The lawyer had nothing more to offer. He didn’t say he was sorry again.

Sixty years later, 21-year-old Dominic Fournier casually strode into the dark museum. He wasn’t concerned about security drones or surveillance scanners.

An ingrained mistrust of all authority led to a multi-year study of computers and cybernetics. That, coupled with a desire to profitably exploit the vulnerabilities of those systems, gave him after-hours access to virtually any building he wanted.

He was so talented that when his mandatory Pre-Life screening was scheduled, he programmed in a glowing biographical background reveal in which he was the former minister of foreign affairs of Italy.

Manipulating the security system here was all too easy.

A drone casually passed him as he took the Vermeer off the wall.

Just before leaving with his prize, he carefully examined it under the dim hall lights. The Girl with a Pearl Earring had a lovely expression of serenity, yet seemed expectant of something more happening soon. He found it surprisingly poignant. The gentle curve of the cheek and bright blue turban were especially attractive.

As he walked away with it, he whispered, “So beautifully done.”