Listening

She had died but awoke.

All she knew is that she was naked, walking on the cold polished stone of a white hallway. It was bright, although the light came from no discernible source.

She stopped then. It was of her own volition, but without any particular reason. She just knew it was time to stop and wait.

“Welcome, Number 146, 389, 221, 117.”

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. The owner of the voice did not appear, but she heard it clearly. It was neither a man’s nor a woman’s voice. It was neither young nor old. The voice had no real texture. Maybe the voice was in her head. She couldn’t be sure. But she understood the words.

“Assessment is now being made for a determination whether you will continue The Process with us.”

She noted the special way the voice somehow managed to highlight the words “The Process. “ She wondered who “us” meant. But she feared to ask. Though she knew she had been dead, actually remembered her own particular death, she was alive again. And the fear of death returned instantly. It never goes away. As they said on earth, like riding a bicycle.

“We are now computing the net harm you have done to The Process. On your planet, in your culture’s vernacular, this was crudely referred to as one’s ‘body count.’”

“Oh, well then it’s zero. I never killed anybody!” The woman spoke in a righteous voice, an optimism flooding her body now. She felt a rising relief at the knowledge she had passed a test she hadn’t even known she had been taking.

“Computational enumeration completed,” the voice said. “Please advance to the next chamber to see your score.”

“What next chamber?” the woman wondered. As far as she knew, she was trapped in a featureless box of white stone. But when she looked before her now, there was a barely-discernible door in that wall which seemed to be cut from the purest alabaster. The door was just part of the wall, white stone in white stone. She was certain the wall had been featureless only a moment before.

She advanced and opened the door by merely touching her index finger to a small, glowing circle just above her waist level. The circle glowed a deep red like the strangest doorbell, and when she touched it, it blanched so it turned back to the white color of the surrounding stone again, and the door slid into the adjoining wall nearest the woman. This revealed a large room that was mostly darkness.

The woman stepped into the darkness and waited for her eyes to adjust. She began to make out chairs, the silhouettes of chairs, like a movie theater, she thought. And then figures. She saw there were human bodies. Sitting. Facing a dark screen. Men, women and children. Slowly, light began filtering in from the edges of the room. The people neither spoke nor moved. They were like figures in a dream. Or a painting. But they seemed real. Somehow alive. Did they even breathe? She tried to detect that small degree of movement, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I never killed anyone!” The woman was surprised she had shouted. It had been involuntary. “You got this all wrong. I’m not a mass murderer or some…serial killer! All these bodies…none of these are mine!”

“The computational tally does not assess merely one’s ‘physically-effected kills.’ The Program casts a much wider statistical net and assigns you “lifestyle kills.” Every choice you made in life, where you shopped, what you ate, how you voted, and so on, was studied to compute how it eventuated in net suffering and premature extinction. Of course, your knowledge of these things, your intelligence, is a weighted factor in determining your responsibility. Even the nationalistic kills of your country are prorated, based on your awareness of that, your political history and your own resistance or complicity (even by apathy) in the affairs of your now extinguished planet.”

The woman found herself walking forward into the horrific movie theater of dark bodies. She needed to see their faces. When she reached the row of seated bodies closest to her, she saw with horror that they had no faces. Not the women, the men nor the children. Each face was a fleshy tabula rasa. She wasn’t sure any of them were alive. She wanted to poke one of them, just to see. Would it jerk away? But she was afraid.

“These aren’t even real people!” she yelled. “They’re showroom dummies! And this is a miscarriage of justice!”

The Display is a representative sample of your victims, Number 146, 389, 221, 117. It is for informational purposes only.”

She continued walking down the aisles. She was sure now that more rows of people were being generated as she walked forward, her bare feet on cold black stone now. The room was clearly modeled on the movie theaters which had existed on earth. The screen was still dark. But as she advanced, it advanced with her. The screen got no further way from her. But more and more rows of pseudo-people were being added to the theater’s evolving space.

“You’re cheating. You’re adding more people every time I take a few steps!” she hollered.

“I assure you that The Display is accurate. If the numbers are large enough, the visual representation undergoes a sort of scrolling. Final tally has been completed and your Final Judgement is ready.”

“Wait. These numbers are totally wrong. Anyone can make mistakes. You made a mistake. There’s no way that even every bad choice I made in my life resulted in this many deaths.”

“The Process is evolutionary. It is not only human animals which are participating in The Process. Some human animals failed to understand that, increasing their final tally tremendously. Some of the bodies you see before you were originally animals, often highly-sentient animals, who shared your planet with you. Unfortunately, they could not speak your language. The suffering and extinction of these fellow creatures are a significant part of the assessment of your final score. Empathy of all sorts is heavily-weighted and acts of empathy are extremely beneficial. I should specify that this means pro-active empathy. Idle empathy does not impact the final score much. Your final score is ready. Your final score is negative. This means you will not be continuing with The Process. Thank you for your participation, your life and your death.”

“You brought me back from the dead just to tell me that I failed life? Just to kick me back into nonexistence? Where the hell is the empathy in that?!”

“Yes, the time matrix has been scoured to reconstruct your consciousness for your Final Hearing. The universe is a just place. Those who wagered otherwise will discover they were wrong. Successful participants are recycled in The Process to continue the Universal Betterment. It is a quite exciting adventure. I am sorry to say you will not be able to participate in The Process any longer.”

She laughed then. She thought about how strange it was to be laughing while she was, technically, dead. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? Even her planet was gone. Stupid planet. Planet with a failing grade. Stupid universe. Stupid empathy computing universe with a hidden agenda.

“Neo-extinction will commence in sixty seconds. Would you like to record any last thoughts for the Akashic Records? Your words will be preserved for eternity.”

“Who the Hell are you to judge me!” The woman’s spittle flew into the darkness. She poked one of the bodies,the one in the chair closest to her, a girl in pigtails without a face. The “girl” did not react. But the body felt weirdly like real flesh, solid and warm. Why did she suddenly feel guilt? Why did she imagine a real girl in a third world country somewhere? A South American girl with a soulful, pretty face briefly flickered through her consciousness. It was an anonymous, young ghost smiling at the world from the life she had cherished and lost at a very young age. Oh, she thought, the things you can know if only you listen.

“I am No One,” intoned the voice. “I am merely part of The Process. I have no independent existence. Thank you for participating. The Process is hard. We want all participants to know that. You are not alone. Go with The Process. The Process Loves You. We want you to know that you were Somebody, because the Process does not design mere genetic junk.”

Then the woman laughed. Because it was funny. She had to admit that. She remembered an earthly meme then, some snot-nosed, crying child in a filthy yellow t-shirt with the message on it: “I KNOW I’M SOMEBODY, CUZ GOD DON’T MAKE NO JUNK.” An awkward meme. Where to even begin? So the computer at the end of the moral universe is cheesy, she thought, and it recycles more than souls. Who are these awful writers, anyway, she wondered. Just before she ceased arguing with herself and the monstrously righteous computer, just before she ceased being, she had this insane craving for a cheeseburger. A cheeseburger oozing all that greasy juice out, a meat orgasm. The tongue’s myoglobin nirvana. It must have been mere lexical association, which had been a big thing on earth. She felt a pang in her nonexistent stomach.

But then she had an explosion of enlightenment, saw a calf licking the leg of its mother in gratitude, in the most beautiful field, a rainy, green field, and she cried out, “Oh!” And in the missed beauty and tenderness of a vanished thing she was gone.