Vertical Access Shaft 538-CFG swallowed light like a black hole. The cavernous expanse was untraveled by the ordinary citizen, and the 200m diameter maw sat waiting in abyssal hunger. The pit was pure black, without any bearing beacons to convey the shaft's monstrous depth. There was no guardrail around the perimeter, and the depression stewed in a cold, inky darkness pervaded with moisture. Mr. Holofeld stood at the brink, calm and composed. His eyes radiated the accepting calm of a man without restriction or bondage, and he faced the bottom of the shaft as he addressed the OFFICER approaching quietly.
"I was wondering when you'd arrive, Mr. Harper."
Frank Harper stepped toward the man with a measured gait. He had trailed Mr. Holofeld for ten minutes and could have overtaken him at any time. But, the OFFICER wanted to see where the errant citizen intended to go, Frank wanted to understand how the mysterious Mr. Holofeld intended to end this theater. Since exiting his vehicle, Frank had been led past shabby encampments of destitute and the indigent, warmed by small fires that burned rough, sooty smoke. He passed acres of walls under the transway, graffitied for what seemed decades with corrective coatings of polymer applied by authorities to hide the signs of free expression. The over-coatings did not quite mask the colorful words and images, and so the multiple layers began to combine into a palimpsest of struggle. It glittered in its uniqueness, catching the slim rays of natural light as a heretic's yuletree. The transit shafts were not well known, but the OFFICER knew them well. They linked the myriad transit lines that criss-cross within the burgeoning, subterranean world of people and machines. Frank also knew the sinister allure they held for those who did not wish to be caught - like Mr. Holofeld.
"Why are you doing this?" Frank asked.
"Because I'm free."
"Free from what?" Frank began to take innocent steps toward the man, hoping to grab him before he plummeted to his death.
"From your masters. From what you represent ..." Mr. Holofeld stretched his arms outward as if a bird about to leave the nest for the first time. "What do you think happens when we die, OFFICER?"
Frank stopped his sly progress and pondered. He had, in fact, wondered about that question often, and every inquiry was left wanting. The question was perennially posited among the social elite in their weaker, inebriated moments. Not that the OFFICER had access to such wealth or lifestyle, and only became involved when TELEstream sent him in. The party's host, a Ms. Helen Thados, could hardly walk straight to answer the door when Frank arrived. She couldn't remember discussing the topic, and invited Frank inside for a drink or two. After her guests departed, she invited Frank to spend the night. They fucked until dawn, then more later that morning. Frank had never held a woman like Ms. Thados before. She was full-grown, tall, and confident; she knew what she wanted, and took it. But, in their intimate moments, tender despite their unfamiliarity, Frank caught glimpses of the woman beneath the facade of Helen Thados. It was in her eyes - at times wanting, then desperate, then unbearably sad. The sight nearly deflated the OFFICER, and after their orgasms mingled in unified bliss, Helen clung to him needily. She had forgotten what had brought the OFFICER to her home, and she did not want to know. She seemed grateful to be holding a real person, and her finger grew steely when Frank eventually rose from her bed to leave. He turned to Helen, turned to say something to offset the deficiency that must have been nothing less than soul-crushing. But, when he began to speak, he found her already distracted and shopping. Shoes ... she was shopping for shoes.
Frank recovered his senses, and engaged Mr. Holofeld. "I'm interested in knowing what you think happens after death, Mr. Holofeld." The question was supposed to be a non-sequitur, but that was his training speaking in his ear. Discussing death as an existential condition was considered impertinent, even among the erudite in academia. Death was a fabled myth, like the false religion of the Heretics, something meant to frighten into commercial action, but ultimately as insubstantial as nightmares themselves. The finality of death can be postponed with the search for improvement and profit, and the price of indulgences would not lie. Or, would they?
"I think you all are already dead, and need to be resurrected ..."
Frank glanced down and shuddered in preemptive vertigo. "That's heretical dogma, Mr. Holofeld. Surely, you can do better than that?"
Mr. Holofeld dropped his arms to his sides, and faced the OFFICER. "I can, Mr. Harper." The man tilted over, straight as a board into the unyielding darkness. Frank scrambled to the shaft edge, and saw a fleeting flap of his pant leg before Mr. Holofeld vanished into the inky abyss. He uttered no cry, and only the unbearable silence of a lost life filled Frank's ears. He sighed heavily to control his pulse and noticed a folded note where Mr. Holofeld had stood. Frank took the note and opened it. A puzzled expression cloaked the OFFICERs face, one that remained during the long, slow walk back to his parked hovercar.
