Ejection

“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say,” Marjorie thought, as she huddled close to the window, her hands squeezing her ears shut.

She glanced at the glassed wall to her left. 2:76 pre-dawn. If the apparent eight-minute rule still applied, only two more remained. Even with hands over her ears, she could hear them, emanating - apparently - from space, all initiated by a single high-pitched scream. They varied greatly - some being short bursts of agony, others wails of indescribable pain, but those child-like ones, all crying out for their —-

Marjorie stopped. “For their what?” she wondered. In their world singular, specific, parents did not exist. And yet, all seemed to be longing for….

Silence. It came quick, returning everything back to as it should be - dark, quiet, still.

She eased the window shut. She wanted to go back to sleep, but how? How could one sleep after hearing those screams?

She placed her hands on the narrow sill, and leaned towards the window, her forehead pressed against it. She breathed deep, trying to calm herself.

In six hours, she needed to be in the glass, taking her place in her classroom to greet her students, a colorful array of avatars, she was just beginning to know by name. As a teacher of the young, she could trust that each avatar belonged to the individual who designed it. Later, once fates were settled, some would be tempted to swap identities, or to even steal an avatar from someone else. But, that was not Marjorie’s problem, not with her class.

She turned, and looked towards her bed. She wanted to cry out - “Why me? Why must I be the one to hear those screams?” but she knew.

***

A few days before the new session, Marjorie was finalizing her first day’s plan when an alert flashed on the glass: “Educators of Spangles prepare to report in-glass to Module # 1, Pod # 1, within the hour.”

Marjorie had read fate-reports that said that the avatar, Spangles, had failed their final STEM exams, thus rendering Spangles incapable of proceeding to their assigned fate, that of Tier-One STEM. Given Spangles’ proven and measured intelligence, it didn’t make sense. Either someone had taken the avatar from the original designer of Spangles, or Spangles was refusing to cooperate.

Another alert reported that the Physical Acquisition Team confirmed that they had secured Spangles in their space - Module #51, Pod #28, Cubicle #6. A few minutes later, Marjorie received her official notice: “Educators report immediately.”

As Marjorie moved her desk into place, she recalled how much she enjoyed Spangles being in her class. A fish avatar - covered in glistening scales of jeweled colors - Spangles floated in the glass, sometimes even swimming among others. Of course, such movement could be distracting, but Spangles reminded Marjorie of something deep in her memory, an image, maybe, from the other place, but more than that, it showed that Spangles taught herself how to code. Such avatars, educators were told, cannot be limited by unnecessary rules. Their intelligence and talent were necessary for the survival of Sphere 3, given what had happened. Just as expected, as a student, Spangles proved to be exceptional, participating in the development of a number of theories that Tier-Two STEM’s were able to put into practical use. They were expecting great things from Spangles.

The glass shimmered. Marjorie stood in front of her desk. Her avatar filled the screen before the court room came clear. At the head table sat the judge, a primitive robot that housed the highest-level artificial intelligence yet achieved. Marjorie disliked seeing such a low-level of technology representing such an important figure, but researchers had found that it was best to clearly communicate that judgement and punishment were being rendered through logic alone, fairness, then, being guaranteed, given how quickly and reliably AI could process all details.

A small, slight figure was then led into the room and told to stand in its center. That was Spangles, Marjorie realized, seeing for the first time in a long while, a person behind an avatar. Rather than appearing bright, happy, and enthusiastic - characteristics all implied through her avatar - this person was clad in grey, a single shade of grey at that, in spite of all the variations available to them.

“That can’t be Spangles!” Marjorie longed to protest, but she knew better. Detailed records were kept of everyone. Surely, an image had been used to confirm Spangles’ identity.

“Begin!” the judge announced. Marjorie sat behind her desk.

For an hour, a series of avatars asked questions of Spangles. Some remained at their desks, trying to coax the person into explaining why they were hesitant to assume their fate. Others entered the room through their holograms, circling Spangles as they accused that individual of killing the original designer. Through it all, Spangles remained silent.

“Stop,” the judge told everyone, causing holograms to vanish immediately. “To render judgement, I need you to speak.” It pointed to Spangles. “Do so now.”

Spangles jammed a hand into a pocket. Immediately words filled the glass. Marjorie recognized the lettering: Spangle’s unique font. She read the first line:

“Oh tiny one - so lovely - with limbs frilled in green…”

The glass went black. The court room returned. Marjorie could see other avatars in the gallery reacting with surprise.

“You, Professor Bonsai,” Spangles said, “you know the truth. You know I am Spangles, and that is my poem.”

Upon being addressed, Marjorie pushed back in her chair, tense, her hands squeezing its padded arms. Spangles pulled out their hand, and waved a small tablet. An officer snatched it away.

“I showed you that poem when I told you that I didn’t want to be STEM’ed. I begged you not to STEM me.”

Spangles glared at the screen. They stared in such a way that Marjorie felt Spangles could see right through her own avatar to see the old woman, the very old woman, she was.

“I showed you others, too.” Spangles accused her, “But you said that I am no poet. You denied me my right to show that I deserve a different fate. You ruined my life, you….”

“Respond, P Bonsai,” the judge cut in.

Marjorie paused, realizing that fate was being determined. She glanced at Spangles’ face, red, wet with tears, framed with hair streaked, Marjorie saw, with colors of a dulled rainbow. Marjorie knew it was best for Spangles to continue their life as Tier-One Stem. She turned on her voice modulator.

“No, judge,” P Bonsai said. “I have never seen that poem. It is also clear that Spangles’ fate was correctly determined, given Spangles’ contributions up to this time. I have nothing more to say.”

“Thank you, P …”

“You lie!” Spangles shouted. The officers grabbed Spangle’s arms.

“Enough!” the judge said. Then, in its measured tone, it said words that Marjorie didn’t expect to hear.

“For refusing your fate as Tier-One STEM, Spangles, you merit Ejection.” It closed its eyes.

“No!” Spangles cried out. Opening its eyes, the judge continued.

“Ejection is scheduled in two hours. P Bonsai, you will report - physically - to Module #1, Pod #3, to serve as chief witness.”

“No!” Spangles shouted. Then, just as the courtroom was fading, Spangles screamed, so highly pitched that everyone in-glass grabbed their ears. Black, then silence.

Two hours later, P Bonsai reported to Module #1, Pod #3 as directed. When she reached the front desk, the orderly told her that once she was positioned, she was to remove her veil, the one required of everyone to protect avatar-identity. When P Bonsai questioned the need, the orderly explained that the accused must always see one person before Ejection.

***

Still at her bedroom window, Marjorie closed her eyes. She did not want to see it again. She did not want to hear those words again.

***

There, in Cubicle #2 in Pod #3, she watched a young human, their female form visible through the thin material of their white scrubs being led in front of her. Two PAT members encased Spangles into a thick black spacesuit. They hung oxygen tanks on her back. Standing only a few meters away, Marjorie tried to ignore Spangles’ sobs, but she dared not look away. She was the witness. Suddenly, Spangles looked straight at her, and then spoke her last words.

“I hate you.”

A PAT slapped her for daring to say what was forbidden. Bile burned Marjorie’s throat as her gut clinched tight, denial no longer possible. She choked down the bitter liquid.

The PATs lowered a helmet over Spangles’ head. They snapped the shield tight.

Marjorie watched them guide the figure into a white egg-shaped rocket, just large enough for one person. Before completely entering, Spangles slid her hand around the opening, seeking, it seemed, to physically touch one last thing of their world. As soon as Spangles’ sat, the capsule sealed itself.

The team wheeled the rocket and its platform away from Marjorie, to what she assumed to be a safe distance. A switch was flipped, a rare mechanical maneuver, that ignited the thrusters. As they flared, heat waves - one more intense than the other - hit Marjorie. Her face grew wet. A voice began counting down. She braced herself, clinching the rail as tightly as she could, but, at zero, the force of take-off pushed Marjorie back, hard against the wall of her small box. By the time she regained her footing, only the rocket’s contrail was visible.

Looking upward into the sky of a setting sun, Marjorie wondered if it was working as they were told it would - the shell burning off as it blasted through Sphere #3’s atmosphere. In that space suit, Spangles would survive, because the rocket’s final heatproof layer - one for which Spangles had corrected a persistent error in a key calculation - protected her, shattering only once it was in space. Upon ejection, Spangle’s sentence would be fulfilled, her life determined by the oxygen in her tanks.

“Minutes?” Marjorie wondered. “Hours? Surely not days…” A voice told her to replace her veil. The door behind her opened. She was free to leave.

***

So very tired, Marjorie could not remember how she got home. She only knew that at 2:70 pre-dawn, a scream pierced her sleep. Startled, she saw that her window was open, indicating that it had been programmed to do so. When she reached it, she tried to push it down, but, not until, at 2:78, when all became silent, could she.

Knowing she needed sleep, Marjorie longed to return to her bed, but the words of Spangles’ poem returned. She began with that first line:

“Oh tiny one - so lovely -

with limbs frilled in green”

She paused; the rest of the poem came easy to her, given how often those words haunted her through the years:

“So perfect in your tray,

Do you ever,

do you ever wonder

what growth might be?

To grow free on your own,

to sink roots into rich soil,

to feel your trunk thicken, bark toughen,

to experience love words carved in?

Oh tiny one,

so artfully crafted -

to be contained,

to be known

only as constrained -

do you ever wonder?”

She knew no child, maybe ten at the time, could write such a thing. It had to have been the work of someone else, she told herself.

She looked out at the night sky; a shooting star streaked across it. Dying, someone once said.

She shuddered. Rumor had it that once the tanks emptied, they exploded, transforming the human into mere trash dust, dust that would then flare and fly into oblivion.

Her scream began as it always did, a moan rising from deep within, climbing octaves upon its release, lasting as long as Marjorie could stand.

Collapsing into silence, Marjorie knew that no one would rush into her room. No one, she knew, could hear her, not in the vacuum of her life.

“What have I done?” she asked. “What will I do?”

Crawling across the floor, she pulled herself into bed, hoping that, maybe, her sentence was finally served.