Naked bodies, sloshed about, submerged in viscous stabilization fluid. Each was enclosed in a steel sarcophagus, numbering in the dozens, sleeping silently within the rumbling lorry's haul. They waited there, like the eggs of some great crawling spider, spewing exhaust and grit into the air, to be risen and plugged in, to be used for their data.

On hauls like this, it was hard for the courier not to think of all those DNA Data Corpses stored away. Every bump, every break, every turn, he felt it in his gut, the inertia of all those bodies, all that fluid. He felt a hundred lives — if they would even be considered that — slap against their alloy coffins. The money the courier carried, packed away within his lorry's haul, was unfathomable. All that stored information, encrypted in DNA data.

His heads-up display, displaying itself on his windshield, showed no warnings or breaches as he rounded a tight bend. As he looked at the desolate plain before him, a checkpoint became visible just on the horizon.

Shortly after, a ping popped up on his HUD, signaling for him to make a stop.

At the checkpoint, the courier climbed down from his pilot seat, admiring the large lorry against the backdrop of so much nothingness. Amongst so much sand and dust. The hulking piece of machinery’s idle hum and hiss was noisy amongst the customs officer’s strong accents and translator module as they climbed from their cheaply constructed, single-story offices. The courier lost himself in his thoughts as he watched steam and exhaust pour from his engine, slowing its mechanical heartbeat to a deep hibernation of idleness.

He clicked his virtual time card, logging his time on the road and beginning his designated rest break. No one gets paid during a board inspection, he thought, fumbling with the lighter in his pocket.

“Another haunt pulling his load through here,” a voice called out, snapping the courier's attention back from whatever daydreams had consumed him.

“Good morning — err — evening, perhaps?” He called out to the customs officers. Their uniforms were so similar to the other countries and territories he’d passed through, but subtle in their differences. Their standard issue rifles of different makes and models, their accents a muddied derivative of his own, and their badges and patches something else entirely.

“ID and itinerary,” one of the three men replied, his rural accent thick, “you’re passing through Seye territory.”

While the one who spoke studied the courier's paperwork, the other two officers began inspecting his lorry. He granted them access to the large, bulky storage containers and his pilot seat. The pair produced some knockoff scanning equipment that looked like something from a broken economy rather than a functional governmental body, but he complied all the same.

“Is that really necessary?” he found himself asking, moving to unlock the metal jowls that would show the innards of a random row of steel sarcophagi.

They nodded — it was, obviously.

When they looked to see what was inside, the pair’s faces slackened, turning white. The courier shook his head and stepped out, lighting a cigarette.

Knowing he couldn’t stop them from their search or their opinions, he went back to the other officer who was reviewing his paperwork. The freighter offered the customs officer a cigarette, but he politely declined.

A chill came as he took his first drag of the day — or was it the evening? God, days all seem to blur together during these hauls, the courier thought, taking an even heavier drag, so much nothingness out here, so much monotony.

“Can’t imagine being owned by a mega-corp, or a government,” the customs officer said inspecting the courier’s manifesto, “I mean, those bodies down in there were people once. To give it all up, for what? A payout? Some promise at the end of their best years?”

The courier took two quick drags before dropping the butt of his cigarette on the ground, stamping it out. “How much of a difference is it?”

“Is what?” The officer asked, his accent thick.

“Between me and the driver and the cargo?”

The officer just looked at him blankly.

“Or you and your badge, and the promise for a pension for that matter?”

“That is different,” the officer said, “We aren’t walking hard drives or pieces of equipment,” the officer handed the freighter his paperwork back to him. “The Seye government would never allow a crime like selling your body, or turning your body into some piece of machinery.”

The other two officers returned, nodding to the third.

“We aren’t some sort of catatonic cargo; we choose our jobs, we have autonomy. Your corpo doesn’t seem to value that. We decide what we do and when we do it and who we do it for.”

The three of them nodded, but a buzzer sounded, drawing the trio’s attention away.

“Break time?” the freighter asked, a slight smile on his lips as he clocked himself back in.

“You’re free to go, haunt,” the leading officer said.

He nodded. “Not like I had much-a-choice, eh?”

As the courier climbed back into his seat, he knew the cargo below him was like a distant cousin. The lorry he piloted was nearly fully autonomous; this ‘job’ and those foreign officers were just as catatonic as he was, floating about in their own viscous dreams, bumping into the walls of their own coffins.