The Catacombs of Sector 11 didn't smell like a cemetery. They smelled like damp limestone, rotting velvet, and the biting, chemical stench of industrial formaldehyde. In Aethelgard, death wasn't a way out. It was a "Status-Change." To die was to become a "Non-Productive Asset," and the Board didn't like assets that stopped paying rent. To lie in a grave was to occupy "Sub-Surface Real Estate" without an active revenue stream.
Solar stepped through the narrow, dripping tunnel. His leather coat dragged against the mossy walls. SQUELCH. SCRAPE. The air was thick and cold. It stuck to the lungs like wet wool. In the distance, a low, rhythmic thudding echoed through the tombs—the sound of automated shovels digging up the "Delinquent Dead."
"The ossuary logs, Elias. Give me the breakdown. Who's rotting on the company's dime?"
Elias was a shivering mess. His skin was the color of a dead fish. His lantern was flickering—CLICK. BUZZ. CLICK.—casting jagged shadows against the skulls stacked in the alcoves. "The families... they can't keep up, sir. The 'Maintenance-Fee' for the ancestral plots has tripled. They're choosing between buying bread for the living or keeping their grandfathers in the dirt. 60% of the crypts in this wing are in 'Cemetery Default'. The soil is rejecting them, Solar."
Solar stopped in front of an ornate, rusted gate. Inside, a skeleton lay on a marble slab. Its bony fingers still clutching a faded, silk ribbon. Solar reached through the bars and tapped the skull with his cane. CLANG. HOLLOW. "Sentimentalism is a 'Taxable Emotion', Elias," Solar said. His voice was a cold, dry rasp. It made the moisture in the air freeze. "If they want to keep their ancestors in a 'Premium-Resting-Zone', they need to settle the 'Genetic-Lease'. A body is just a collection of minerals and calcium on loan from the Board's earth. I want an 'Ancestral-Audit' implemented by the next moon. 500 credits per decade of decomposition. If the bones are still there, the debt is still alive. It's a recurring biological balance."
CRACK. A slab of stone nearby groaned and split—SNAP. RUMBLE.—as an automated extraction-arm lunged from the ceiling. It dragged a coffin out of its hole. The wood was rotten. It spilled grey dust and bone-splinters across the floor. POOF. DUST. "Audit the marrow, Elias!" Solar barked."Audit the damn marrow, Elias!" Solar spat. He wiped a streak of grave-dust from his lip. The sound didn't just echo; it sat there, heavy and stinking like the old bones around them. He wasn't just talking. He was marking a price. "I want a 'Post-Mortem Surcharge' on every stone. If the name is still there? That's 'Unauthorized-Brand-Persistence'. They're squatting in the public memory for free. Not today. If they want to be forgotten, they pay the 'Erasure-Fee'. Otherwise, the meter keeps ticking. No free rot in Sector 11. None." "I want a 'Post-Mortem Surcharge' on every tombstone. If the name is still legible, it's 'Unauthorized-Brand-Persistence'. Charge them for 'Occupying the Public Memory'. If they want to be forgotten, they have to pay the 'Erasure-Fee'. Otherwise, the meter keeps running, even in the dirt. No interest-free death in this sector."
THUMP. A figure dropped from the shadows. The Shadow. He was standing on a pile of broken headstones. His silver mask was caked in the white dust of ground bone. DRIP. CLACK. He was holding a heavy iron bar. His knuckles were white.
"You're taxing the dead now, Solar?" The Shadow's voice was a low growl. It made the teeth ache. "You've bled the living dry, and now you're digging up the ghosts for gold teeth? You're a grave-robber with a government permit!"
Solar didn't turn. He pulled a small, silver-handled magnifying glass from his pocket. He looked at the engravings on the wall. SCRAPE. LOOK. "A grave is just a 'Long-Term Storage Unit' with poor climate control, ghost," Solar said. His eyes were like cold, polished steel. "The Board owns the dirt. We own the minerals in those bones. If the families want to keep their 'Legacy-Assets' sub-surface, they pay the 'Geological-Storage-Rate'. 2,000 credits per square inch of decay. You want to 'protect' the dead? Fine. Buy the cemetery. 400 billion credits. Settle the account, or I'll start the 'Mass-Liquidation' protocol. I'll turn these ancestors into industrial fertilizer by midnight."
CRACK. ZAP. The Shadow swung the iron bar. He smashed a decorative stone urn. SMASH. SHATTER. Shards of ancient clay flew everywhere. Solar didn't move. He just looked at a piece of the broken pottery.
"That's a 'Cultural-Heritage-Penalty'," Solar whispered. His voice was low and dangerous. "120,000 credits. Plus, you've disturbed the 'Atmospheric-Rest-Balance' of this wing. That's a 5% hike on the sector's 'Funeral-Insurance' premiums. Every time you breathe down here, you're making it more expensive for these people to rot. Your rebellion is a direct cost to the bereaved."
Solar swung his cane. He caught the Shadow in the shoulder. THWACK. GRUNT. It was a dull, heavy sound.
"The audit is moving to the DNA, ghost!" Solar yelled. His voice was a tidal wave of cold logic. "Every ancestor is a debt! Every tomb is a transaction! I'll tax the ghost! I'll audit the epitaph! I'll put a meter on the very rot that consumes the flesh! I'll foreclose on the afterlife!"
He turned his back on the Shadow. The automated shovels began to whir and grind in the dark. WHIRRR. SCRAPE. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't care about the eyes watching him.
"Elias!"
"S-sir? The dust... I can't breathe..."
"Initiate a 'Skeletal-Repossession' for all plots in arrears for more than fifty years. Grind the bones down for industrial calcium. We'll balance this ledger with their structure. Tell the families... if they want their fathers to rest in peace, they better start working in the light. Peace is a luxury for those with a zero-balance." Solar adjusted his collar. He flicked a piece of tomb-dust from his sleeve. "Death is just the beginning of a very long, very expensive conversation with the Auditor."
SLAM. The iron doors shut with a boom. The dead were left in the dark. Their bones clicked. The interest continued to compound in the silence of the grave.