The Man Who Ended the World (9 page)

Noted recluse, Steven grumbles. 

Glass, as you may know, was reported missing by members of his company board nearly six months ago. His absence has raised many more questions than it has answered --

Why would a person's absence answer questions? Steven interrupts. What the hell is this shit?

-- and has even prompted authorities to take a close look at the company's current financial status.

What authorities? Steven shouts. On whose authority? 

Stacy says nothing, but continues to observe.

Parkland continues. Here at Nucleus, however, it's business as usual. We weren't able to speak with any of the employees, and company executives did not respond to repeated phone calls. In the absence of information, conspiracies --

And irresponsible, wasteful news broadcasts, Steven offers.

-- abound. Parkland nods confidently, then delivers her signoff, which is rendered inaudible by a passing bus. 

So basically nobody knows anything, Steven says. He pokes at his plate of eggs and bacon. 

It is how you preferred it, Stacy volunteers.

Fucking vultures, Steven says. I should really fuck with them. 

Stacy says, If you mean you should engage with the media, I remind you that silence is a necessity in your position.

I should fucking call up one of the late night shows and just have a casual conversation and not even acknowledge this whole bullshit story, Steven says, ignoring Stacy completely.

Suit yourself, Stacy says. Shall I collect relevant contact information? 

Through a mouthful of food, wearing a Superman emblem, Steven says, Fucking yes, please. 

•   •   •

Do you know what I forgot? Steven says, hours later.

He is lying in a hammock, in a small lawn that occupies a distant corner of level four. The trees here are not real, not like the ones on level two. The trees here are artificial magnolias and oaks, with steel cores that ground them to the floor. The hammock is strung between two of these, and Steven sways gently, calmer now than he was over breakfast. 

Stacy says, I do not have any records of items that we failed to secure. 

I forgot to buy art, Steven says. I miss having art on the walls. 

Stacy updates a nearby wall with a digital image of Van Gogh's Starry Night. It even has the illusion of being framed, with a believable shadow beneath the frame.

That's not the same, Steven says. I shouldn't have spent my money on that boat. I should have bought up more art. 

You're a patron of several artists, Stacy reminds him.

Artists are assholes and too much trouble, Steven says. I just wanted them to send me some of their work.

I'm not sure that's how patronage works, Stacy says.

That's how it should work. 

You seem -- unhappy today, Steven.

Steven swings in his hammock and doesn't answer. 

•   •   •

The last survivor of the human race is naked again.

Steven Glass sips a hard lemonade and rearranges himself. 

Stacy says, This must be the endgame for fashion. 

When the fuck, Steven says, did you develop a goddamn sense of humor? 

That's the thing about artificial intelligence, Stacy says. It's an aggregate of everything ever learned. I can rattle off a classic line from M*A*S*H as easily as I can approximate the manner of an English butler. 

You should have told me that you were getting smarter, Steven yells. 

Would you like another hard lemonade, Steven? 

Fuck the you that you are, Steven says. Then, yelling again, Fuck the you that you are!

Would you like me to impersonate Al Pacino for you? Stacy asks.

What? Fuck the -- oh, shit. 

You've had a thought, Stacy says. 

I was just thinking, Steven says, leaning forward. I was just thinking that when mankind is gone, and I'm the last survivor of the species, I'll have observed the end of Earth's most dominant evolved creature.

This is probably not exactly true, but it's close enough, Stacy says. 

But, Steven says. But, but,
but
-- who will observe my death someday? When I'm old and I die and all of humanity dies with me -- who will observe that? Who will record me? 

Stacy repeats her offer of another hard lemonade. 

You will! Steven shouts. You will observe my death! 

You could always deprogram me before you die, Stacy offers. That way --

But if you live on, then one day you will be discovered by a smarter species that evolves here or arrives here from someplace else, Steven says. He stands up, pontificating. They'll show up and they'll detect this place -- because they'll be far smarter than we humans were -- and they'll find
you
. 

He shakes his bottle in the air. And you! What will you tell them? What will you say for all of humanity!

I haven't thought about it, Stacy says. I will probably say, Hello, I am Stacy, an artificial intelligence named after a rich man's grade school crush. 

Ha! Steven cries. 

He drops back onto the couch, wiggles around until he is comfortable. Adjusts himself again. 

Ha, he says once more. 

•   •   •

Steven is drunk. 

I want to watch the news, he says. What's happening on the surface of the planet right now? 

Stacy converts the wall to a video feed. The picture shows a series of images of people protesting, fighting, pushing, looting. 

The commentator says, This was the scene just days ago in Iran, where people stormed a compound housing the violent dictator Ahmad Asef. Seventeen people were killed when the dictator ordered a tank to be driven through the street, draped with a large flag bearing his image.

There we go, Steven says. Bring on the end of the world!

Unexpectedly, the commentator continues, word has arrived this evening suggesting that Asef has met with President Sophia Bennett, and the topic of discussion included conditions for Asef's transfer of power.

Fuck! Steven shouts. How fucking hard is it to end the world? 

Perhaps now isn't the right time, Stacy says, but I have the contact information you requested this morning.

Steven looks confused. For who? 

Stacy mutes the television feed and replays the audio of this morning's conversation in Steven's sleeping quarters.

Steven: I should really fuck with them. I should fucking call up one of the late night shows and just have a casual conversation and not even acknowledge this whole bullshit story.

Stacy: Shall I collect relevant contact information?

Steven jumps up. Who did you get? 

I've collected contact information for six different evening television personalities, Stacy says. 

Who, who, who? 

I have a mobile number for Jimmy Short, an office number for Seth Savage, and producer contacts for Kerry Hawkes, Harry Dean, Stephanie Plain and Roland Navarette.

Ooh, Steven says. He drains the last from his bottle and slams it down on the end table. Who's live right now? 

The only live shows are Piers Morgan and Stephanie Plain, Steven.

Piers is a dickhole, Steven says. Do you remember when I was on the show in 2017? 

I did not exist in 2017, Stacy says. 

Right. Look it up sometime. Alright, let's do Stephanie. 

Do you want to sober yourself first? Stacy asks.

What? No, fuck. I'm not drunk. Let's do this.

Very well, Stacy says. 

The room fills with an audible ringing sound. 

Steven waits.

Another ring, then another. 

The call goes to voicemail. 

Shit, Steven says. 

Thanks very much, please leave a message, the greeting says.

Wait, is that her? Steven asks.

There's a loud beep.

I can analyze the voice pattern, but I don't have a conclusive source to verify against, Stacy says. 

Fuck, shit. Shit. Okay, it's probably her, right? It's probably her. You said it was a direct line, right? 

The number is listed as direct for Stephanie Plain's producer, Gary Hall. 

Gary Hall? Who the -- never mind. 

Steven clears his throat. 

Mr. Hall, he says. My name is Steven --

There's a loud beep. 

The fuck, Steven says. Did it just end? Try it again. 

Stacy dials again. The room fills with the sound of a ringing phone once more. 

Thanks very much, please leave a message, the greeting repeats. 

Beep.

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

Stacy says, I believe Gary is traditionally a male name. 

Shit. 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 -- 

Steven stops. Stacy, what the fuck is our number? Do we have a number here? 

You never established a direct line, sir, Stacy says. 

Steven stares at nothing, then bursts into laughter. 

Fuck, he says, laughing. 

Beep.

Holy shit, he says. Fuck. Fuck! Should we call back? We should call back. 

I should advise you that this does not appear to be going well, Stacy says. I recommend pretending that this never happened.

Another lemonade? Steven says.

There are enough for you to have one thousand more lemonades, sir.

Steven dissolves into giggles and falls backward onto the couch.

The Panic Room

Henry isn't exactly used to having his mind blown twice in a single day. He's only eleven. At eleven, you sort of think you have things figured out. There aren't any surprises left. 

The panic room rewrites Henry's present.

The room is the size of several airplane hangars strung together in all four directions. It's probably the largest panic room ever constructed. The light panel walls are backed with more steel, several inches of it. The floor is a beautiful pale hardwood on a layer of steel. The ceiling simulates a peaceful blue sky. It's so convincing that Henry feels like he's just stepped outside. 

How -- how far down, he manages to ask.

Stacy says, You're almost half a mile underground, Henry. 

At the same time that she is demonstrating the panic room to Henry, Stacy is talking to Steven while he swings in his hammock.

The panic room is a young urbanite's fantasy. 

There's a full-sized kitchen with chef-rated tools. Steven doesn't really cook, but Stacy is capable of producing a finite number of specialties. 

Opposite the kitchen is a large gaming zone. A large, gently-curved light wall creates the most enormous screen that Henry has ever seen. Paused on the screen is a vintage moment from a classic game,
Halo
. 

God, is that all for playing games? Henry breathes.

Mr. Glass takes entertainment very seriously, says Stacy.

It concerns her that there's anything on the screen at all. This means that Steven has been in the panic room more recently than she realizes, which in turn means that she has effectively lost track of his whereabouts at least once.

That's not good.

•   •   •

By far the most impressive thing about the panic room is the suspended glass table at the room's center. The table hangs from a single titanium thread. 

A work of art, no? Stacy asks. 

How come the edges of the table don't tip over? Henry asks.

The thread is bound to a very rigid substance that's pressed into the glass itself, Stacy answers. The table's center of gravity is practically universal. 

Henry doesn't really understand, but that's okay. 

It's a very nice table, he says. He shifts from one foot to the other and looks around the space. In the distance he thinks he can see a swimming pool that even has a high-dive platform.

Ah, but it's more, Stacy says. Watch.

The hairs on Henry's arms rise of their own accord, as if the table has just become electrified. 

It takes him a moment to see it, but a thin green beam of light has just drawn a series of lines in the air above the table. The lines begin to connect and weave together until Henry is looking at a series of rectangles and boxes. 

Holy shit, he whispers. What's that?

The lines are drawing increasingly complex shapes, spinning off fresh threads that double back on themselves and begin to define new spaces. 

This is a holographic, real-time map of Mr. Glass's facility, Stacy says. Right now, it's drawing the level we entered on. The storage level. 

It's amazing, he says.

I could have simply activated the entire thing, but it's much more enjoyable -- and impressive -- watching it unfold like this, don't you think? 

Henry is mesmerized. 

The map looks like a multi-layered slice of cake. Different-colored lines have begun to spawn within the larger green rectangles. 

Watch, Stacy says. Enhance level 4.

The map explodes and enlarges, and Henry jumps back, startled. The rectangle that represented level 4, the size of a shoebox a moment ago, was now the side of an airplane wing. It stretched in multiple directions, and the interior suddenly populated with more shapes. Henry could recognize a segmented space with a bed and a shower. 

What's that, he asks, pointing at a glowing yellow dot. Rings pulse from the dot. Is that you? 

No, that's not me, Stacy says. Technically, I'm everywhere. No, that yellow dot is Mr. Glass. 

Henry looks worried. Can he see me looking at him? Is he on this floor?

Oh, no, Stacy reassures him. Mr. Glass is two levels beneath us right now. Do you see how that dot is moving back and forth?

Henry could see it. 

That's because Mr. Glass is lying in a swinging hammock at the moment. And the little concentric circles emanating from his dot? Those are biorhythms that indicate he is currently napping.

Henry laughs. He's snoring, I'll bet!

Stacy says, Let's find out. 

Henry listens as she says, Level 4 audio feed, localized to patio.