by Richard Pearce-Moses

It seldom rained hard enough in Bellingham to need an umbrella. Denizens of the Pacific Northwest pulled up their jacket hoods, knowing the shower wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. So, Mathew was surprised by the downpour. The late summer sun wouldn’t set for hours, and the low, gray clouds felt like dusk on a short winter day.

He ducked into the Lasso, a small bar off Holly. He’d passed it before on his way home from work, but never been in. It catered to a younger crowd who liked loud music and – judging from the display behind the bar – a remarkable range of spirits.

“Get you a drink?” The bartender was about thirty, dark hair, a full beard, and a flannel shirt rolled up to reveal intricate, brilliantly colored sleeves on both arms. 

Mathew was sufficiently intrigued by the man’s smile that he pulled up a bar stool and scanned the taps. “An Aslan stout.”

His phone pinged: a text from a friend. He laughed as the bartender returned with his beer. 

“Good news?”

“Let’s say surprising. Evidently ChatGPT thinks I’m dead.” The bartender leaned in a bit, so Mathew continued. “It says here I was born in 1951 and died in 2011. Wrong on both counts. Lists my jobs, but it’s muffed the details. Not to mention, it says I was the director of digital strategy at the Smithsonian Institution. Sounds like a great job, just not one I’ve ever had.”

“Drinks on the house, then. First time I’ve served a dead man.”

Mathew raised his glass in salute. “Thanks. And I hope you’re wrong. I’m retiring tomorrow, and I’ve got a few things on my bucket list.”

Curious, he brought up ChatGPT on his phone and prompted: Who is Mathew Jaynes? Text scrolled down the screen a few seconds later, occasionally pausing as if thinking. This time, he was born on September 18, 1951, adding a specific – and incorrect – date, but still dead in 2011. In both cases, it was clearly him; the single ‘t’ in his first name was unusual, and the program got his middle name right.

> What was the cause of death? 

Mathew Guzman Jaynes was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2010 and passed away on January 6, 2011, at the age of 60.

He grimaced. Pancreatic cancer? If it’s going to make things up, couldn’t it have come up with a less painful way to go?

> How do you know?

The information about Mathew Jaynes’s death is widely available online, including news articles and obituaries. 

The bot generously provided links to “a few sources that confirm his passing.” One pointed to a professional newsletter, although Mathew wasn’t mentioned anywhere, and the other two were 404s.

Bewildered, amused, and a little annoyed, he stared at the screen. He remembered a techbro at work sniggering, “Large language models are nowhere near artificial intelligence. They’re nothing more than predictive text spitting out lies. And the media makes it worse when they use the euphemism ‘hallucinations.’” 

Finishing his beer, he wondered if the current LLM craze would, in a year or two, be as dead as NFTs and if OpenAI would be the next FTX Ponzi scheme. After thirty years working in IT, he appreciated the value of innovation. Disruptive tech, though, was another thing. Siliconistas and venture capitalists were always hunting for the next big payoff. They’d jump onto unproven tech as it raced up the peak of inflated expectations, ignoring the carnage of so many technologies abandoned in the trough of disillusionment, without any thought for long term productivity. Have these people never heard of Gartner’s Hype Cycle? Or P. T. Barnum?

He posted the obit on Facebook, adding Twain’s famous “The report of my death is exaggerated.” Moments later, his phone began to ping with condolences, memorials festooned with laughing and crying emojis, and a note from his friend Benjamin that while the quote captured Twain’s sentiment, it wasn’t precisely what the man said.

---

The next day, Mathew’s coworkers gathered in the breakroom for the usual TGIF happy hour and to celebrate his retirement. When he’d hired on, the CIO had been running a seat-of-the-pants backup system and kept the tapes in the server room. Ten years and a system crash later, the CIO was gone and Mathew was made responsible for maintaining the company’s backups, protecting data from bitrot, and ensuring the files’ authenticity and integrity. Even if it wasn’t the Smithsonian, he was proud of what he’d accomplished.

His boss raised her glass and offered a cheery toast. “Here’s to a long life. Or a long afterlife, if ChatGPT is to be believed.” Mathew joined the others with a cheer and laughter.

As he took in the room, Mathew saw smiling colleagues rather than close friends: good people to work with, but no one he socialized with. No doubt because he was old enough to be their father. He’d never thought about the age difference, and now he suddenly felt old. When he was young, death was a distant abstraction. Got ten or fifteen years left if the actuarial tables are right.

His boss put her hand on Mathew’s shoulder, guiding him toward a window overlooking the bay. “Any thought as to what you’ll do with yourself?”

Mathew paused. “Nothing, to start – relax into the lack of routine. I’ve started a bucket list.” Patting his waist. “Get some more exercise, read more. Maybe one big trip – maybe Paris but flying’s become a nightmare. I’ve never been bored. Something’s always turned up.”

“You’re luckier than you realize,” she said quietly. “It’ll be public knowledge at close of business today. The company’s being bought by NeuSys. It’ll be a big payout for the shareholders, although I’m not sure how things are going to shake out for the rest of us. Your benefits are locked in, though.”

“Yikes. Isn’t that one of those vulture capital outfits buying up companies to sell off the assets for a quick buck?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, but Cory Doctorow has more than a little to say about enshittification.”

---

The next morning began with a three mile walk around Lake Padden, despite the drizzle. Proud of starting a routine to rid himself of the effects of a desk job, he stopped for coffee as a reward.

The barista apologized when the register denied his credit card. “I keep hearing tech’s going to make our lives easier…”

Mathew laughed it off and switched to a robotic voice. “I, for one, welcome our high-tech overlords.” He paid cash and left a nice tip. 

Back home, he pulled up an app to check his account. It wouldn’t connect. When he called the bank, a tinny, mechanical voice answered.

“Please state your name.” 

Robots. Never a good sign. 

“Mathew Jaynes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please state your name.”

Mathew repeated his name, louder, slower, and more clearly. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please state your name.”

He sighed and shifted his phone, moving the mic closer to his mouth, and repeated his name.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please say your name.”

“Representative.”

“I understand you want to talk to a representative, but I’ll need to verify your identity first. Please state your . . .”

He interrupted. “Representative.” 

“One moment please.” 

The line disconnected with a click. He put down the phone, scowling. Does tech save the bank enough money to justify pissed off customers?

Shaking his head, he pushed back from his desk and headed down the block to the Co-op to pick up supplies for dinner. The clouds had cleared, and he could see Kulshan to the east and the snow-capped peaks of Golden Ears in Canada a few miles north. 

Walking home, his phone chimed a generic ringtone, an unidentified number. No doubt, another in the daily dozen of robocalls. 

When he’d put away the groceries, he saw whoever had called had left a message. He hit play.

“This is David White with Pearsall Insurance. We’re trying to reach Mr. Scott Wade regarding survivor benefits…”

Scam?

Mathew started to delete the message, then heard “please call the number on your policy and ask for the claims department.”

Maybe not if they’re making sure I’m calling a legit number. 

He checked the files in his office and found a policy with Pearsall he’d completely forgotten. Dated in the seventies, he was surprised he still had it. It’d been a bad joke. 

Scott Wade rarely crossed his mind, though his name occasionally popped up in some articles about venture capital startups. They’d taken econ together back at Western, and Wade had thought it’d be funny to take out life policies on his classmates. He passed them out in class, a handwritten note scribbled at the top.

Survival’s a game and I’m going to outlive all you stinking losers. This way, I’ll know when you die. A way to keep score. Best yet, the policies will pay for the parties to celebrate.

Wade had certainly done well for himself, working at a couple of VC firms known for disrupting markets. Another example of Doctorow’s dystopia, the corpocracy making a killing for shareholders, destroying jobs, and ruining people’s lives.

Mathew let himself enjoy a moment of schadenfreude. Wade had beat them all to kingdom-come a year ago when the cocky SOB had put his Tesla in self-driving mode, then rode full throttle into the Sunset Carwash in San Francisco. Karma’s a bitch. 

He checked the policy. The agency was in Texas, not yet 5:00 p.m. there. He called the number, and a human answered with a charming West Texas accent. A miracle! Evidently the death-and-disaster business is doing well enough to pay a human to answer the phone.

He asked for David White, and a moment later he heard a man answer with a “Hello.”

“This is Mathew Jaynes. You left a message asking me to call back about survivor benefits.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. Let me bring up the file . . . Did you say your name was Mathew Jaynes? Is that Mathew Guzman Jaynes?”

“Yes, although you mentioned Scott Wade in the message.”

“Oh.”

Mathew heard typing on a keyboard, but the agent was silent. “Is there a problem?”

“Sorry . . . didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Not a problem, just a puzzle. Our system flagged the policy for review. I’ve been trying to reach him. The contact information we have on file is cold. I’ve been trying other people listed on the policy to see if they might have a good number.”

“I may be able to help a bit. Wade died about a year ago.”

“Ah. Could be why the policy hasn’t been paid. What’s odd – and I apologize for this – if you’re the Mathew Jaynes who Mr. Wade insured, our system thinks you’re deceased. I hadn’t noticed when I called.”

Mathew laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Sorry for your loss?’”

“Not sure what’s going on. Our company contracted with a new service that uses AI to check for any discrepancies in payments and distributions, and I suspect that triggered the flag. I’ll start a trouble ticket. In any case, you have no liabilities regarding the policy, so the situation won’t affect you. Again, I apologize for the confusion.”

Mathew popped on the TV after dinner to catch up on the Great British Baking Show, but Netflix wouldn’t connect or let him log in. Locked out of Prime, too. Restarting the TV and rebooting the router didn’t fix the problems. Picking up his mobile to call the cable company, the connection never went through. Bad things come in threes. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.

Frustrated, he grabbed a book and headed to bed. Neal Stephenson’s new novel would be better company, anyway.

---

The next morning, his phone and cable were still dead. Guess the gremlins in the network haven’t disappeared. Better swing by Verizon and Comcast on the way to the park.

Heading toward the door, he stopped when he saw a letter poking through the mail slot. The envelope had only his name – no street address – crawled in green ink. The return address read ‘@Philomena’. 

Reflex kicked in, and he pulled his phone from his pocket to search the name on social media. He face-palmed in frustration when he saw the frozen screen.

The envelope contained a single sheet of heavy, unlined paper with a Crane Bond watermark and the same green-ink handwriting. He licked his fingertip and rubbed the writing; the ink smeared, almost certainly a fountain pen.

He stared at the letter in disbelief. That’s more than a little odd. Finding out who this mysterious @Philomena took priority. Verizon and Comcast could wait, and he headed to the library.

After an hour of searching, he had no clue. He’d found a few, old messages from an @Philomena on Twitter, from back when it was Twitter. Judging from the posts, it was a bot to generate clickbait, not some digital Samaritan. A quick check of other social media sites turned up a fair number of Philomenas. No surprise. It was a rare but not uncommon name, but none were in the area. Pseudonym?

He pulled the letter from his pocket and re-read the odd code. Seems safe, no identifying information. He opened ChatGPT with the credentials and entered the prompt. A moment later, the bot complained about a potential SQL vector and refused any further input. Worth a try . . . 

Nothing. ChatGPT refused to respond. Is it working? And then, panic. Idiot— I should never have trusted a stranger’s code, probably been scammed or worse.

Closing the browser, he abandoned the terminal and found a rickety bench in the park behind the library. Brushing leaves away, he sat and took a moment to breathe. In, two, three. Hold. Out, two, three, four. Box breathing usually cleared his head. 

He hadn’t figured out who @Philomena was or the nameless group she worked with, no idea how they’d found him, why they’d offer help, or if the magic would actually work. He checked his phone. Still bricked, although they’d warned him it might take time. And wondered if there was any chance the misinformation in other systems like the Pearsall agency’s might ever be updated. When you’re dead on the internet, you’re dead.

Across the street, the unhoused camped on the lawn surrounding city hall gave him shivers. I’ve got maybe $200 bucks in my pocket, so I might be pitching a tent here if I don’t get this sorted.

---

Siri wouldn’t unlock the door when he got home, but he kept a physical key in his wallet. Entering, he half expected the place to be emptied or to discover someone else already living there. When he closed the door behind him, he gave a silent prayer that things seemed the same. Then, walking into the kitchen, he spotted a small, green book on the counter. Someone’s been here.

Relief turned to panic, and he checked the house for strangers. During a second, more careful look around the house, he opened drawers and found his cash, jewelry, credit cards, passport: nothing missing, nothing touched. And no clear sign of breaking and entering, so why call the police? 

Might not hurt to have a go-bag… A little insurance if things get any weirder.

He grabbed an unused rucksack buried in his bedroom closet. After filling it, he realized he’d been thinking in terms of a vacation: too many non-essentials. He emptied the bag, keeping only a single change of drab clothes and some rain gear. He’d wear practical clothes that would resist wear and wouldn’t stand out. He threw in toiletries and enough meds to last him a month, then went to the kitchen to pack some calorie dense food.

He picked the book up and read the title: Catalogus Domini Canis. Using his rusty Latin, he guessed it translated to Catalog of the Lord’s Dogs. Someone – @Philomena, he presumed – had inscribed the fly leaf in the same handwriting and green ink as the letter. “To a Friend in need.”

The title page read Official Directory of the Dominican Province of St Albert the Great. The table of contents listed priories, each named for a saint: Thomas Aquinas, Caterina Benincasa, and Martin de Porres. Leafing through the pages, he scanned the individuals listed under each house until he found a Sister Philomena at the Rose of Lima Priory in Lynden. Straight up Highway 539. I can get there before dark and see if someone local can help me find the place. And find @Philomena.

---

Driving into Lynden, Mathew could smell greasy fries before he saw the McDonald’s sign glowing in the twilight. He parked and went inside, fascinated by the menu. Can’t remember the last time I ate plastic food. A kid behind the counter asked for his order.

“Actually, need some help finding a place. Know of a Dominican chapter house nearby?”

The kid gave a blank stare.

“A Catholic church?” he prompted.

The kid shrugged and waved vaguely to the east. “St Joseph’s. Grover and Twelfth, a couple of blocks.”

Mathew dropped a buck in the tip jar. He got to the church just before six o’clock. A modest A-frame on top of a stone foundation. Light leaked out of shuttered basement windows, but he doubted anyone would be there on a weeknight. Then he heard a cry. “Bingo!”

He found the door and peeked in. He expected geriatrics huddled over cards with numbers, markers in hand. Instead, he saw maybe a dozen or so goths in their teens or twenties seated at laptops, staring at him.

“I’m Mathew . . . “

“No names,” a voice interrupted.

“I’m looking for…” he paused. “I’m looking for a friend who might be here. Or someone who might help me find them.”

“Why would you think that?” 

Mathew wasn’t sure who’d responded. He reached into his pack and pulled out the catalogus.

“Someone left me a letter and this book.”

A figure in a black cloak, hood, and cowl started walking toward him. The ensemble was not far off from the goths’ outfits but, worn over a white tunic, the effect was more medieval than OG. Mathew could barely see the face in the dim light, but sensed someone older than the others.

“I believe you’re looking for me.”

“You left these at my place?” he asked.

She nodded, pointing toward the stairs, and led Mathew up to the chapel. When they entered, she pointed to the confessional and smiled. “A quiet place to talk. You’ve got limited options and need to come up with an exit strategy. The Order of Lazarus can help.”

Mathew spent the rest of the night in the basement, sitting next to a fellow muttering at a terminal. He guessed the man – a kid! – was in his mid twenties, but the clothes, the voice, the manners gave no clear clue. @Philomena had introduced them as Sib. “We’re all sibs. Sister and brother are old fashioned. And labels can be divisive.”

“What should I call you?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Sib’s good. We’re all ghosts with new names, new identities. We’re building a new one for you. I’m afraid Mathew Jaynes is done for, no fixing or undoing all the cruft associated with it.”

Mathew quit listening when he saw his face on the sib’s laptop. The sib zoomed into the left iris, fingers dancing on the keyboard, mumbling to himself, “A little steganography to block recognition programs, an adversarial patch.”

“Steganography?” Mathew asked.

“Ask me later. Need to concentrate. This bit’s tricky.”

@Philomena had been listening and picked up. “He’s altering biometrics so a scan will validate you, but won’t be linked to your old identity. Not my area of expertise. It’s more than a subtle change to the image. He’s embedding code that’ll throw systems a curve ball. He’ll work on fingerprints, too. A whole new you.”

“Then who am I? I mean, who am I now?”

“You’re confused. You’re still you, but – to use a phrase – you’re a ghost of your former self. Sib’s stripping off the ‘you’ that the corpocracy has built up over time. The Mathew Jaynes in hundreds of data stores is dead, even if you’re not. You’ve got a fresh start, reborn. A new home, because you can’t go back.”

“Is all this really necessary? Can’t I show up someplace, alive, to prove I’m not dead? Seems like a living, breathing Mathew Jaynes should be proof enough.”

“Might have worked a few years ago. With so many systems interconnected, the error has become pervasive. Records someone might use to validate your claim will also note your death, and these days most people will believe the system rather than you and think you’re trying to pull a scam. Likely as not, they’ll let things stand, as the cost of correcting the system isn’t worth it to them.”

“So why do you trust me? Why are you offering me this new life?”

“The sibs vetted you before @Philomena contacted you. Don’t let the goth outfits fool you. They’re white hats, and they’re very good at what they do.”

“And my name?”

“Like I said. Whatever you want it to be.”

“I think I know,” he said, leaning over to whisper in the sib’s ear.

---

Standing on the porch of the chapter house, @MatTwo looked down the valley toward the sunrise: fog in early morning light, the first blush of reds and oranges in the trees. A slight breeze chilled him, and he pulled his sweater tight. All in all, a good start to his rebirthday: sixteen years since he’d left the priory in Lynden. He’d beaten the actuarial tables and started another trip around the sun. He hummed the progression from Corelli’s La Folia and felt his age, with full force. He could feel every year, every day, every hour in his bones, the steady beat of time marching into the future, toward a death more final than a glitch in the software.

@Philomena and the other members of the order had made the arrangements: a closed casket and cremation, transporting him north across the border during the funeral, a bus ticket to this rural community in the West Kootenay area. It’d all come down so fast, he hadn’t understood what was happening. He’d figured it was just the sort of spontaneity and fun he wanted in retirement, an adventure that would make good dinner stories when his life got back to normal. 

When he arrived, the @bot gave him a few days to settle in. He got to know the others living at the old hunting lodge, every one a Lazarus risen from the dead and given a new identity. He fell into their daily rhythm, reminiscent of the Divine Office. Mornings, they gathered for lauds, followed by meditative silence. They shared breakfast before beginning work, scouring feeds for any Lost who needed protection from the corpocracy and ways they might be able to help. Vespers at dinner, sharing their work before socializing. They were – and still are, @MatTwo reflected – a pleasant group of odd ducks. And then matins before they went to bed, one member reading from the Rule to remind them of their purpose, to pray and work for peace.

The Order wasn’t a utopia. It wasn’t always easy. They weren’t free from the pettiness of humanity, but they were loving and forgiving. 

With his new identity, he could have left the chapter house, built another life. Most of the Lost they’d rescued moved on. The Order had welcomed him, and after a year as a novice, he’d chosen to stay. He knew, when the corpocracy thought you were dead, you were dead. And, surprisingly, the new place had felt like home, had become family.

@MatTwo had taken over initiation duties from the at the end of his novitiate. Today he’d welcome a young man the Order had recently secreted across the border, another one Lost to the corpocracy, papers and passport useless. After seeing the dossier, @MatTwo was looking forward to meeting the man in the picture, a pleasant fellow he’d encountered years ago: about fifty, with some gray in his hair, a full beard, and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal intricate, brilliantly colored tattoos on both arms standing behind a bar, in front of an impressive display of bottles. 

---

---

Richard Pearce-Moses (he/him) is a retired archivist and archival educator, whose writings includes A Glossary of Archival and Records Terminology (2005) and Tales from the Pandemic: A Modern Decameron (2021).

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