A Bird Be Science-Fiction

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. The same goes for a scream in the vestibule of a district train.

Keep quiet.

The warning, in syntactical error, pops across my window. The Capitol must have rekindled surveillance. I’m on a District Tour. The Guide will catch the bug. He believes The Capitol is monitoring him. In the meantime, though, no more screaming in a vestibule while he’s asleep. At least for a little while.

I swipe the warning away and raise my voice in complaint, “Someone at the Capitol needs to fix the windows-board. Errors appear when I want to view the natural world.” The Guide responds in three punctuated snores.

Keep quiet.

I know who the warning is from. It is no pop-up error. My most recent code switch must have struck a nerve somewhere deep inside The Capitol. There wouldn’t be surveillance on a district train if it hadn’t.

Ah, the The Capitol's district train. An architectural resurrection of wonder. Its track stretches hundreds of miles over the most superior of lakes and slices straight through mountains without a bend or twist. A long, silver streak cutting perpendicular with the horizon as a steel-capsuled passenger car zooms left and right in direct line with The Capitol. They say the train connects every district, “as the crow flies"...is that an old adage or an idiom? I’m new to the language.

Speaking of birds, we are nearing District 12. The windows will begin to sweat with condensation. I’ve traveled these tracks so often, I can count the precise second for a mushroom-capped droplet to duplicate in a window-edge corner. The Capitol likes people to believe its district train is sealed in top gun material. Erected without seams so one could glide all over it. It even has a nickname, The Magic Bullet. The Capitol never mentions how the windows leak and soak the seats.

The Capitol would also like one to believe The Magic Bullet thrusts in state-of-the-art speed. The epitome of District Tour efficiency. Well, I’ve been riding on ‘The Magic’ for years. It glides through hills and valleys like coarse, soggy sheets and it’s as quick as the zipper of a teenager caught in mid-action. No dirty intentions. Cut me slack. My background is in science, not figurative language.

Keep Quiet.

I’m grateful for the warning. I inspect the window to ensure no remnants of the pop-up message remain. Hovering my face close to the glass, I breathe and watch as fog covers and uncovers the reflection of my lips. I must reveal nothing if I want my next code switch to hit. Especially now.

Ever since The Rebellion, The Capitol runs surveillance on every communication mode, tracks every digit, every code and every single keystroke, even the deletes. Any strike ever made, from a corrected spelling error to an encrypted letter, noted and recorded. Everything–down to drafts of thought–are stored and archived. Used later as justification for the harshest punishment when one commits the smallest of infractions.

Except on The Magic Bullet. It’s Capitol owned, which means it is unbeholden to District Rules and Restrictions. Especially when it comes to surveillance. No wire tapping on this train–an agreement made, long ago, among Capitol stakeholders for the sake of maintaining “smooth business” between the districts. Because of this, I've been able to code switch undetected. Until today.

Keep quiet.

I know who the message is from. I am grateful for it. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose. Intake a deep breath of air. Feel the memory of the messenger like a hollowed tree knot. With thumbs, I press his name into my temples. I leave no trace. I tell no one. The Guide snores in rhythm to the train lurches.

I'm a bird on a wire. The Capitol does not suspect my hand in the code switching...yet. The nervous twitch in every Administrator's hand shake suggests The Capitol fears one of their very own is causing the disturbances. Otherwise, they would not have bugged The Magic Bullet. No one considers a common teacher could ever be responsible.

For one, The Capitol silenced teachers after The Great Pandemic. Or so they believe. They rounded us up, cut out our tongues, masked our mouths, and made us Capitol servants. District school grounds were used for reapings, not for mathematics, writing, or reading. Science was replaced with rolling screens of CRPs (Capitol Runned Programming). I remember; I taught the subject before the birds all vanished.

Speaking of birds, we’ve arrived in District 12. The Magic Bullet’s windows have begun to weep from condensed saturation. The train stops with a guttered grind of dry metallic friction. I won’t exit. Not until tonight. I press my forehead to the window, a strand of hair soaks. Beyond layers of glass, fog, and precipitation, I see rows of tributes collected like grey stones in the bottom of a moat. I never asked to be part of this District Tour. I never wanted to ride The Magic Bullet.

I scan the crowd for a pair of dark eyes; my heart beats. I exhale against the window and watch foggy dew spread like an amoeba. I know who the warning is from. He stands among the tributes. I can feel his presence in the grey crowd outside The Magic Bullet. I breathe even harder against the glass and with a fingertip, scrawl letters.

Keep Quiet.

I won’t scream this time. My fingertip code will still be received, emerging on the other side of the glass pane like the triangle of a magic pool ball. If The Capitol is so concerned about communication slipping past surveillance, they should investigate the state of their District Train windows. I know who the message is from. Scribed beyond district lines. I am grateful for it.

I speak loudly to no one, “I want to view the natural world. Play ‘Ocean Waves’ on the windows-board.” Then with my sleeve, I rub the fingered message clean. With a flick, the windows on the train switch to a video of foamy waves lapping at sandy, bleached shores. The natural world selection comes complete with an audio-recording of seagulls.

Speaking of birds. I found one in the mountains of District 12. They're no longer supposed to exist, but I heard its sharp trill. I stalked the sound, sliding like smoke curls through pine trunks until I witnessed a flash of red feathers. And between leaves, I watched it wrap claws round a branch like a civil war ghost. I made an attempt at allusion.

Thus concludes a teacher's attempt of the genre.

To continue onto the next chapter, you must pass the quiz: This first-person point of view belongs to: a. Ms. Frizzle, no longer driving The Magic School Bus b. An character in The Hunger Games c. Éan Bird d. All of the above

Hint: Though I teach the Sci-part, I never mess with fiction.