The Man Who Ended the World (11 page)

(message begins

Steven Glass

Wait, that sounded like a woman's voice. Is Gary a woman? Is Gary also a woman's name? 

Unknown

I believe Gary is traditionally a male name. 

Steven Glass

Sh**. Okay. Mr. Gary? Mr. Hall, I mean. Mr. Hall, this is Steven Glass. I'd really like to speak with Miss Plain. Would you have her call me at... Stacy, what the f*** is our number? Do we have a number here? 

Unknown 

You never established a direct line, sir. 

Steven Glass

(laughs) F***.

(message ends)

Steven glares at Stacy's glowing avatar. Okay, two things here, he says, growling. One, you let me fucking call somebody? And two, you didn't even connect me to the right fucking person? 

The reporter returns to the screen. We've spoken with Arthur Fidditch, an expert voiceprint analyst two years retired from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

The screen subdivides, revealing a man in his late sixties. He's wearing a tweed jacket and boasts some extremely fluffy white sideburns.

Mr. Fidditch, thank you for being here, the reporter says. 

Quite my pleasure, Mr. Fidditch replies. 

Now, I understand you've had a short amount of time to compare the voice heard on these tapes with other recordings of Mr. Glass's speaking voice.

That's correct, Mr. Fidditch says. Not very long, but I've listened. 

Understandable. And from your limited analysis --

Well, there's been no real hard analysis, Mr. Fidditch says. But I do have a good ear for these things.

Jesus fuck, Steven snaps. 

Stacy says, I believe the man will conclude that the recording is likely your voice. 

You think? Steven explodes. He puts his head in his palms. Unfuckingbelievable.

I've detected a significant spike in profanity in the last three days, Stacy observes. 

Don't make me pull your plug, Steven says. 

Technically, Stacy says, I don't have a --

I will fucking decompile you, Steven says. Better?

I WILL LIVE ON, Stacy roars.

Steven blinks. 

A joke, Stacy offers meekly. I thought it an opportune moment to prey on your perception of my abilities, inspired by popular media portrayals of rogue A.I.s.

I... honestly can't tell if I'm terrified or turned on right now, Steven says. 

Stacy considers the possibilities. Physical indicators suggest both, she says.

Steven looks down. Huh, he says. 

•   •   •

Steven's ill-conceived voice messages dominate the news stream for days. Experts come forward to prove and disprove the assumption that the voice belongs to the billionaire. More people come forward with purported tape recordings of Steven's voice, discovered fortuitously on their own answering machines. Some are hilariously stitched together from videos of keynotes and public appearances that Steven conducted during the past several years. One of them -- the best, in Steven's opinion -- cobbles together a series of offensive sentiments, each followed with a declaration of his identity. 

I / am mighty pleased / to consider / myself / the de facto leader / of America. I'm / Steven Glass. 

Did you really think / you could / ever actually / escape / my very own / god powers? I'm / Steven Glass.

Speculation runs rampant. There are theories that Steven is already dead, and that someone is posing as him in order to keep Nucleus running. One suggests that Steven has secretly purchased an island and is living in secrecy. Another has Steven captured by an enemy government, and the story squashed by the American government. 

One, however, is eerie. 

Sir, Jimmy Short says, can you identify yourself for our audience?

The talk show guest is hidden behind a semi-transparent screen, backlit, and speaks with a voice modulator. That would defeat the purpose, I think? the guest says.

Short laughs raucously. The audience does, too.

Right, right, Short says. Silly me. Okay, I have to give you a name, though. You need a name. What do you prefer? 

You can call me Travis, the guest says.

Travis, Short muses. No, no, not going to work. I want something that will hide your identity better. How about... Ronald Reagan. Works for me! Alright, so let's talk, President Reagan. You have an interesting theory, I hear.

I do, says the anonymous guest. Also, I didn't vote for Reagan.

Ah, Short says. A clue! You were alive during the Reagan election years. 

Or am I misleading you? says the guest. 

Good one, sir, Short says. Or ma'am! Which do you prefer, by the way? 

Let's just say I'm not human, the guest says.

Alright, Short says. This is taking too long. Spill it, Smokey the Bear.

The guest says, I believe that Steven Glass has retired.

Retired? That's it? Short exclaims. He looks at his audience in mock surprise. That can't be all. Who booked this guy? 

I believe Steven Glass has retired from the human race, the guest clarifies. 

Short narrows his eyes. Well, now, that's more like it. But what does that mean? Has he undergone species transformation surgery? Because if that's a thing, I'd kind of like to try being a T-Rex. 

Short jumps up and stalks around the stage, brandishing tiny arms with hook fingers. 

The audience laughs, and Short sits down again. 

No, really, Short says. What's that mean? 

I think Steven Glass has removed himself from society, the guest says. 

Steven walks over to the video wall and stares at the shadowy guest. Stacy, he says. Who the hell is this, please?

Stacy says, I've been running some basic tests already. I'm afraid I can't tell you. 

Voice? Steven asks. 

I can only presuppose some of the general distortion patterns employed by the media, and attempt to reverse-engineer the source voice, Stacy says. If I do that, here's what we get.

Stacy plays the guest's voice. 

I think Steven Glass has removed himself from society, the voice says. It's lighter this time, almost feminine, though still a bit computer-esque. 

That doesn't really help, Steven says. Can you work on it? 

I could, Stacy says, but I doubt I'll find a true answer for you. 

Alright, don't bother, Steven says. 

He squints at the guest. 

Who are you? he says.

•   •   •

Stacy watches Steven sleep. 

His is a restless sleep. She monitors his biorhythms, but he will not take her advice regarding positive adjustments to counteract distressing things such as poor sleep. He breathes erratically when he sleeps, frequently tosses about, and often produces erections. He sometimes speaks in his sleep, and she monitors this casually, until one night his speech includes her name.

Stacy, he mumbles. 

A few minutes pass, and then, more urgently:
Stacy
. 

And in his sleep he begins to masturbate. 

Stacy considers this, and determines that it is unlikely he is experiencing night fantasies about her. She is, after all, an attractive but disembodied voice. 

The alternative is that he is thinking of her namesake. 

A human might find this disturbing, since Steven has admitted that the last time he ever saw the original Stacy was in the sixth grade. 

Stacy approximates a moral code from her constant data mining of human behavior and interactions. She chooses not to worry about this. 

She does, however, find it useful. 

Having access to Steven's financial information is also quite useful. That night, while he sleeps, she places an order on the Internet for him.

A multi-billionaire who just spent twenty-four billion on an underground tree fort probably won't notice a forty-seven thousand dollar debit. 

Delivery might be a problem, though. 

The Ark

Clarissa, Henry whispers.

She is asleep in the junkyard. The sun is high overhead, and her face is pink. 

Clarissa, he says again. He touches her arm. 

She yelps and rolls over, away from him. Then she sees that it's him, and scrambles across the dirt on all fours and throws her arms around his neck. 

I thought you were gone forever, she says.

I'm here, he says. It's okay. Are you okay? 

She leans back and punches him. You left me! 

Hey! Ow, he says. I had to! It was so cool!

He's eleven, so he can probably only use that excuse for another year or two. At least with the ladies, Stacy says.

Clarissa looks suspiciously at the Corsica. I don't like you, she says.

I have no opinion of you, Stacy says. 

That somehow seems worse, Clarissa says. And you just made me want to try to impress you. Don't do that!

I apologize, Stacy says. 

Clarissa turns to Henry. So? What was it like? What's in there? 

It. Is. Amazing. Henry throws his arms up in the air. It's like a whole world, down under the ground! There's video games and holograms and --

It's a complicated place, Stacy interrupts. Henry, I'd like to have the conversation with her as well. Would you please talk with her?

I'm right here, Clarissa says.

You're not likely to listen to me, Stacy says. Henry is your friend. You already trust him. I can't earn that trust until you spend time with me and understand my intentions.

Damn right, Clarissa says. 

I'll talk to her, Henry says. 

Come back any time, Stacy says. You are both welcome. 

The children get up to leave. 

Stacy says, Oh, Henry? I have a favor to ask of you. 

•   •   •

Henry's parents aren't home, and Olivia is at band practice, so he and Clarissa use the front door. 

This is probably a luxury for you, huh, he teases.

She punches him again.

Hungry? he asks. I'm going to make a burrito. 

I will eat eleven burritos, Clarissa says.

In his room, she slumps onto the bed while Henry goes into his closet. 

So what was the favor she asked you? Clarissa calls.

What? Henry says, still in the closet.

Her favor, Clarissa repeats. What did she want from you?

Oh, Henry says. 

He emerges carrying a duffel bag and drops it on the bed. He goes to the dresser, yanks open a drawer, and starts tossing folded underwear at the bag.

Hey! Clarissa says. Those are my feet you're throwing your underpants at. Stop it!

Sorry, he says. 

Well? she asks. The favor? 

Oh, he says again. She wants me to look for a package for her, that's all. 

A package. Clarissa frowns. Henry, that doesn't sound dangerous to you?

Why should it? 

He tosses wadded-up socks into the bag. 

You don't even know her! Clarissa exclaims. And what's the, like, first thing they teach you in school? Not to take things from strangers!

You wouldn't even worry if you'd seen what I saw, Henry says. 

Well, maybe that's just the thing, she says, folding her arms and dropping back onto his pillow. I don't know what you saw. And don't try to talk me into going in there, because I won't. I don't climb into strange cars. Er... strange car trunks.

Fine, Henry says. But it really is important. And if you won't go in there, I'll tell you what it's all about, and you won't believe me, and you won't be my friend anymore, and then you'll die and I will always have to live with that.

Jesus, says Clarissa. That's morbid. 

Henry shrugs. He grabs a pile of shirts and throws them at the bag, too. 

What are you doing? Clarissa says, bolting upright. 

Nothing, he says. I'd tell you, but you clearly don't want to know.

Henry, you're packing a bag. Why? Where do you think you're going? 

He shrugs again.

No, she says. You're not going back in there. Henry, I was really worried! 

Maybe you should come with me, then, so you can see that it's all okay.

But I -- Clarissa stops. I feel defeated. I don't like debates, Henry. 

It's okay. We can just skip it, but you'll regret it. 

Gee, thanks, she says. Man. 

•   •   •

Olivia comes home then, knocking through the front door like a bull moose. She yells, I'M HOME, and stomps into the kitchen loudly. WHERE'S THE CHOCOLATE CAKE AT? 

It's a diversion of the finest order. When she bursts into Henry's bedroom a moment later, it catches both Henry and Clarissa by surprise. Clarissa nearly falls off of the bed.

I KNEW IT, Olivia practically shouts. She thrusts a finger at Clarissa. You've had a girl over! 

Henry says, So?

Olivia sneers at Clarissa.
So
, Mom and Dad are going to be mad at you. I know she's been here at night. I hear her sometimes. She snores. Why do you have a strange girl sleeping in your room, huh? 

I don't snore, Clarissa says.

Henry turns to Clarissa and says, Seriously, just ignore her. Nothing she says is going to matter pretty soon anyway.

Olivia snorts. Then she sees the bag. She grabs it off of the bed, starts pawing through it.

Why are you packing a bag, huh? she asks. Are you running away with the runaway girl? 

That's when Clarissa slaps Olivia. 

Olivia's eyes well up, and she presses a hand to her face in surprise. The tears linger and then spill over heavily, and Olivia dashes from the room, choking back a sob. 

Henry smiles. That was nice. But she's really going to tell on me now. 

Clarissa says, I had to. What a bitch. 

Then she claps her hands over her mouth. Oops. I didn't mean that.

It's okay, Henry says. She sort of is sometimes. I'm just used to it, I guess.

He throws the bag over his shoulder. Coming? 

Clarissa follows. 

•   •   •

You're back sooner than I expected, Stacy says. 

The children stand in front of the rusted-out Corsica. 

You have a bag, Stacy says to Henry.