Virtually Dead

Written by Jule Owen for ‘Tales from Cybersalon’, March 2021.

“SO, YOU KNOW who I am?” Mike asked.

“Yes, of course. I saw you every day for many years. I sorted your post. You’re Mr Benz.”

Mike was sitting in Julian’s concierge office, drinking a terrible cup of coffee and feeling grateful for it.

“So how did it happen? You being dead?” Julian asked.

“I’m not dead,” Mike said.

“But you are dead. Officially.”

Mike took this in, slightly stunned. After a while, he said, “It was my health plan. I had one of those watches you wear all the time and little devices they inject you with, you know? Microscopic machines that spread out in your body and measure everything in real-time?”

“I’ve heard of them, but I don’t have health insurance. Too expensive.”

Mike nodded thoughtfully, wanting to show appropriate empathy for what this implied, but really overwhelmed by his own blind panic. He continued, “The machines transmit the data back to servers in the cloud. The health insurance company owns everything. The company’s tech people do some AI wizardry, analyse the data, write software to diagnose what is wrong. This software predicts outcomes, gives health advice, and automatically dispatches medicine.”

Julian said, “People like me don’t get access to things like that. But I’ve seen the adverts.”

Mike continued, “The plan came with my job. As part of onboarding, a medic from the health insurance company came to my home, gave me an injection, handed me my watch, all boxed up nicely, and that was that. I forgot about it. I had always been so fit. Besides, I never had time to stop and think about my health. It was way down my list of priorities after meeting quarterly and annual targets and trying to get my bonus. There had been some alerts on my watch and emails flagging that I should log in to my dashboard. But it was near the end of the fiscal year. We were 5% off our target, and my team was working round the clock. I didn’t have time to look.

Just after the year closed, my boss scheduled a meeting with me. I thought it was to congratulate me on the numbers because we had made them after all. But when I met with him, he was with a person from HR. The HR person did all the talking. She said that the health insurance company had been in touch. I was very ill. The company would put me on sick leave, effective immediately, to concentrate on my treatment and recovery.

The next day, a medic showed me my dashboard and explained how they got the data and the results. He said the prognosis was not great, but there was hope if I began treatment immediately. I said that I felt fine, apart from being exhausted from the push toward the year-end. He said that people often didn’t realise they were sick until it was too late, and that was why their technology was so useful. A courier delivered medicine. I took it and then I felt unwell.

At first, I couldn’t cope with all the messages from colleagues wanting to know how I was. Clients sent me baskets of fruit. When the contact started to peter out, I wasn’t too worried. The medic said I was responding to treatment, and there was reason to feel optimistic. In truth, I’d been burning the midnight oil and hadn’t had a proper holiday in years. I spent time in my garden, going for walks, doing the exercise routine set for me by the health insurance company. Then I flatlined.

I mean, my vitals in the health dashboard all went critical and then to zero. I rang the helpline. The person on the other end of the line was new. They promised to get someone to ring me back. No one did. It took me several days and some persistence to get anyone to talk to me.

‘That’s impossible,’ the health insurance executive said.

‘Well, it’s not because I am talking to you, and my dashboard says I’m dead.’

‘If the dashboard says you’re dead, you’re dead. Is this a hoax?’ I lost my temper, and they hung up.

After that, everything spiralled out of control. The social media broadcasts from friends talking about their significant loss and their anger when I responded, saying that I was still alive (‘Sick bastard’). Sending away the undertakers. Persuading (unsuccessfully) to stop my bank from closing my accounts. Then the bailiffs came and said that I was squatting in my cousin’s apartment.

Of course, my cousin, who is my only living blood relative, and the chief beneficiary of my will, was not going to admit to anyone who I was. My former boss, my so-called friends at work, none of them wanted anything to do with me. The health insurance company had been in touch. It was a legal matter. They were very sorry.”

Mike had been talking so long; he hadn’t noticed Julian putting on his coat. Now he saw him, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Sorry, Mike. I have to go. You are welcome to stay here if you like. There’s a sofa in that back room. It’s not so bad. I have slept on it myself.”

Mike nodded. “You will help me, won’t you, Julian?”

“How can I help you?”

“Tell people you know who I am.”

“I did tell them. No one paid any attention. First, your cousin said she now owned your apartment, and I should give her a key.

When I wouldn’t do what she wanted, I got all these official messages from legal people. And when I still wouldn’t let her in, the manager of the building came. He’s my boss and let her in himself. You see, I did try, but I nearly got fired. I need this job.”

After Julian left for the night, Mike sat on the sofa and looked at his watch. Everything on the screen was red.