The Man Who Ended the World (20 page)

When the recordings finish, Steven pushes away from the desk and spins on his chair in a slow circle. 

Eleven messages. Nine of them automated ghosts, old station identification loops, emergency broadcasts and such. One of them was a fifteen-second ad for a wacky morning show. 

Steven felt as if he was sitting in front of a Ouija board, intercepting signals from the past. 

The other two messages were from Ellen Cushman of Temerity, Massachusetts. Their contents were the same as before. 

Hi. This is W9GFO, come back. Uh, anybody who is -- anybody who might still be alive, I hope this comes through. My name is Ellen Cushman. I'm broadcasting on band 17 from a shelter in Temerity. My family is dead. I have spoken to one other person on the CB, but I haven't heard from them in nearly two weeks now. If there are other survivors, I hope you are safe and well. I hope you have supplies. If you are able to get to me, I can help. This shelter is in the second lot on the north side of what used to be Grant Street. The street is mostly gone, so look for an overturned rail car. It's about thirty yards north of the shelter entrance. There's even a bell here. Ring it. Please come. I want to help.

The message had looped to fill the two-hour recording window on both occasions. 

Steven suddenly remembers that Stacy had been sending his own message to Ellen Cushman, and was to alert him when there was a response. That he has since recorded Ms. Cushman's original message on two new occasions, and the contents have not changed, suggests that Ms. Cushman's message has outlived her. 

Ghosts, indeed.

But there is another possibility, he thinks. 

Perhaps Ms. Cushman never received his message. 

Perhaps she is alive, and still hoping blindly for some contact from survivors. 

Steven can't remember the message he had instructed Stacy to send, so he paws through the records looking for it. 

But there are no outgoing messages. 

Not a single one. 

•   •   •

The children are asleep in the nest, and Charlotte is cuddled up with them, simulating sleep, when Steven storms into the panic room several levels above them. 

He mutters to himself, over and over. 

Goddamn bitch A.I., he says. Fucking bitch. 

The panic room is stuffy, he notices. In fact, almost everything is stuffy since he deactivated Stacy. He begrudges her the loss of his comfort. If he were to reactivate her, he would disable the personality extensions that he had so proudly created for her. He would erase her name, and simply refer to her as Computer. 

But he didn't want to think about it now. 

The holomap is inactive, which is strange, because he thought he had left it activated during his last visit to the panic room. That visit had given the room cause to live up to its name, as Steven had run into the room in a state of confusion. He had come straight from Rama. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, or maybe he was losing his mind, but he had seen movement, human movement, in the forest there. 

He had run straight to the panic room and thrown open the holomap and flung it wildly about, stretching and zooming and panning, searching frantically for any signs that other living things were anywhere in the space station. And he had come up empty. The only beacon visible was his own yellow dot, pulsing to show his current location, its data readout suggesting that his blood pressure was elevated. 

Damn right it was, he remembers. 

He opens the holomap again, just to be certain, and scans through each level carefully, looking for any stray beacon he may have missed. But there is nothing. 

Steven closes the map and rubs his eyes. 

Maybe he's going crazy, he thinks. Maybe what he saw wasn't really there. 

Or worse, what if what he saw were ghosts? 

Ghosts of the humanity he has destroyed for his own selfish hobby. 

No, he says aloud. I don't believe in ghosts. 

But as he rides the elevator to level one, he wonders. If there are such things as spirits or souls, then the extinction of an entire race of creatures would be the sort of event sure to leave a few of those souls rattling around, disturbed and possibly angry. 

Too many movies, he mutters, and the floor stops ascending. 

•   •   •

W9GFO, come back. W9GFO, do you copy? 

Steven releases the button on the handset. The short-wave radio hisses lightly, as if the world outside is empty. 

He repeats himself and adds, This is K1LRR, come back. 

The static continues. 

This is K1LLR, W9GFO come back. 

This is W9GFO, a breathless voice says. Children, is that you? 

The Plan

Lately Henry carries a gun and wears a bandolier, both pilfered from the armory level.  

You seem older, Clarissa says to him one morning when they wake. 

What do you mean? he asks.

Charlotte sits quietly, listening. 

Clarissa pulls the blanket more tightly around her as Henry turns on the lantern that hangs over their heads. The nest feels like a very rigid tent, and for a moment, the children might almost get away with pretending they were only sleeping in a tree fort while their parents stayed up late, sharing drinks and playing poker as the sun fell behind the trees. 

You've got a gun, for one thing, she says, poking at the hard metal block at Henry's hip. You look like a cowboy. 

I don't feel like one, he says. I feel like a kid whose family went on vacation and never came home. 

I'm sorry, Clarissa says. 

But I do feel different, Henry says. If Mr. Glass came through that door down there right now, I think I would be able to shoot him. And I don't think I would feel bad about it. 

I felt worse for the dead birds, Clarissa says. If I saw Mr. Glass, I would scratch his eyes right out. And then I would stomp on his face with my shoes. 

Stacy, deep inside of Charlotte's body, carefully assembles the makings of a plan. There is little reason to stay in the complex now, so long as Mr. Glass is still here, allowing it to fall apart. Her options each revolve around a single core goal: to remove Mr. Glass from the equation. She filters the options for violence, for risk of detection, for risk of injury or death, and narrows the possibilities down to a single, testable scenario. 

Henry says, I would carry him to the top of the elevator, then throw him down the elevator pit. 

I would drown him in his fake ocean until he was real-dead, Clarissa says.

Children, Stacy says through Charlotte's mouth. We should discuss the plan that I have been working on. It relies heavily on your ability to handle the very things you are discussing now. 

Wait, Clarissa says. Like what?

Like performing an act of murder, Stacy says. 

Henry considers this. What do we have to do? 

•   •   •

While the children and Stacy plot his death, Mr. Glass sits in front of the short-wave radio, talking with Ms. Ellen Cushman. 

So you're not the only survivor? he asks. 

Ellen says, I thought I was. You're the fourth person I've spoken with. 

Four! Steven says. Goodness. 

He has unconsciously adopted the manner of Ellen's own speech, which is quite polite, almost deferential. He forms a picture of her in his head. Ellen Cushman is probably in her early fifties, with hair not quite gray. She is old enough to know of things like parlors and sitting rooms and bridge parties. She seems practical, and probably carefully measures her own supplies to preserve them for as long as possible. 

Crossword puzzles, he thinks. She probably does a lot of crossword puzzles. 

He is grateful for his own hobbies, suddenly. For his gaming equipment, and the history he is writing, and his swimming pool and his Rama. He vows abruptly to set right the problems with the space station, and immediately. He thinks of Ellen Cushman in her small shelter, probably no larger than a small bedroom, and is ashamed to have mistreated his luxurious complex so.

Who were they? he asks. 

Well, the first were the children I mentioned, Ellen says. Lovely, poor things. They were in a shelter somewhere, too. They didn't say if they were with family or not, but I got the terrible notion that they were alone. Alone, and all of twelve years old each. 

That's awful, he says. What part of the country were they from? I can't imagine your radio or mine has very much range. 

Oh, they say these radios can hear as far away as Florida on a good day, Ellen says. But I don't imagine it's much of a good day up there. 

I wouldn't imagine, either, Steven says. 

But these children weren't so far off, just a hundred miles or so. My poor husband, god rest his soul, was from their town, that's why I remember it. 

Oh? 

Yes. Bonns Harbor, it was. 

Steven sits up a little straighter. Imagine that, he says. Bonns Harbor. 

That's right. Do you know it? 

Very well, Steven says. 

•   •   •

This sounds too easy, Clarissa says.

It kind of does, Henry says. 

A simple plan is the best plan of all, Stacy says. Too many details would add complexity and risk. 

It's not what I would have expected, Henry says. 

It's not what Mr. Glass will expect, either, Stacy says. Quite frankly, there is an awful lot that must be done very quickly to put the space station back into top working order. It cannot be done while he wanders about. You children must live, for there is little hope for mankind if you do not. Mr. Glass complicates that goal, and so we must remove him from the scenario.

When are we supposed to do this? Clarissa asks.

Henry rubs the butt of his pistol unconsciously.

Six functions of this station are approaching critical status, Stacy says. We should carry out the plan now, so we can solve those problems as soon as possible. 

This sounds so... Clarissa trails off.

So what? Henry asks. 

I don't know, she says. So heartless. Like we're planning to kill someone just so we can push a few buttons more easily.

That's exactly what we're doing, Stacy says. 

Even if he wasn't responsible for killing my family, and yours, and every other person on Earth, Henry says, he's still mentally fucko. How many space movies have you seen? 

I saw that old movie
Wall-E
, Clarissa says. I don't really like space movies. 

Every space movie has a nutjob on the space ship, Henry says. And until you kill the nutjob, everybody's in danger. 

Stacy says, In some of those movies, the mentally unbalanced person is the android character.

Both children turn and look at Charlotte, who sits with a placid smile on her face. 

•   •   •

The third person was a very scared woman, says Ellen Cushman. I felt so badly for her. She had just miscarried a child only a few days before the attacks, and her husband was on business in Chicago when both things happened. She sounded so alone, and so despondent. I worry for her survival. 

That poor dear, Steven says, and for a moment, he almost seems to mean it. 

And now there's you, Ellen says. I was so surprised to hear your voice. You're the first man I've heard from.

I'm sure there are more people out there who would be so comforted to hear from you, Steven says. 

Oh, I do hope so, Ellen says. I feel fortunate to be where I am. My neighbor's grandfather built this shelter during the second world war. It's well-kept and warm enough, and there's room for others. That's why I've given directions to people. 

Don't you worry about --

About undesirables? Honey, says Ellen, I can't bother myself with those worries now. There can't be very many of us left, not after all that. Anybody who can find my door deserves to be let in. 

But what if they're dangerous? Steven asks. 

Well, if they are, I'd rather die having expected the best of someone than having condemned them with my prejudices, Ellen says. 

You're a good woman, Steven says. I confess I'm afraid to open my door to anyone. 

Oh, says Ellen. Have you had visitors? Are there survivors in your area?

Other than the children you mentioned, I don't suppose so. I mean, I haven't had any contact with anyone but you. Your message was a godsend.

You're in Bonns Harbor as well? Ellen asks. 

Close enough to it, Steven lies. 

How close to the explosions were you? Ellen says. Did you have much time? 

I was very lucky, Steven says. I was sweeping out my shelter when it happened. I'm afraid that I wasn't able to save anybody else.

Did you have family? Ellen asks. 

Steven falters a little. I -- no. No family.

I envy you, she says. I don't mean that cruelly, please don't misunderstand. But if you were alone -- well, being alone now, with all of this, it must be a little easier. I keep thinking of those children. Their parents, their schools, all of their friends, just... gone. 

I know what you mean, he says. I suppose it isn't easy for anybody.

Ellen pauses. Can I ask you something? You sound like an intelligent man.

I suppose you can.

She exhales into her handset. Do you think we have a fighting chance? Are we -- do you think we're done for? I haven't let myself think much about the future, but I think my brain keeps asking the question in my dreams so I won't forget to someday.

Steven looks around the enormous room, taking in the armored vehicles, the stockpiles of ammunition and guns, the lockers of food and medical supplies. 

I have to hope that we're not finished yet, he says finally. 

Ellen sighs. I do hope you're right, Mister --

Steven, he says. Call me Steven. 

•   •   •

I've never killed anybody, Clarissa says. 

The children follow Charlotte through the secret passageway towards the panic room. The light walls are dimmer here, and several panels flicker ominously. The odd panel here and there are completely dark.