The Man Who Ended the World (8 page)

Wow, Henry says. This is huge! I want to live here!

Oh, but Henry, says Stacy. You haven't seen anything yet. 

Beside the elevator is a charging station and several electric vehicles. The first is a loader, the second a forklift, the third a high-speed cart. 

Can I drive one of these? Henry asks.

We're going quite a distance, Stacy confesses, but I can't allow you to drive the vehicles. Perhaps once I know you better.

Know me better? he asks. Does that mean I get to stay awhile? 

We'll discuss that later. For now, do you see the wall at the other end of the room? 

Way, way, way down there? Henry asks, pointing.

That's right. Count three lightbulbs from the end.

One, two, three, Henry says. Okay. 

Walk to that particular bulb. Please don't disturb anything along the way. Everything here is carefully catalogued. 

Okay, Henry agrees. Can I run? 

Suit yourself, Stacy says. 

Will Mr. Glass hear me in here? Should I find cover while I run? 

Mr. Glass is otherwise occupied at the moment, Stacy says. 

In fact, Mr. Glass is currently driving golf balls in the nude on level three. 

Can I yell? 

Why would you want to do that? Stacy asks.

To meet my echo, Henry says. 

I suppose you may yell, she agrees.

HELLO! Henry calls.

HELLO! his echo returns. HELLO! HELLO! HELLO!

Henry squeals and breaks into a run, shouting his name as he goes. 

•   •   •

Stacy is waiting for Henry when he arrives, exhausted, at the distant end of the storage level. 

That must be, like, ten miles, Henry says, panting. 

It's three thousand six hundred ninety six feet, Stacy says. 

What is that, ten miles? 

That's seven tenths of a mile.

Seven tens miles? Henry asks. Like ten miles times sevens? 

That's not at all what I was suggesting, Stacy says. Your educational sessions must be extremely flawed. 

Henry catches his breath. 

Would you like some water? Stacy asks. 

Yes, please, he says, breathing heavily.

There's none on this level. You'll have to follow me. 

There's a clicking sound, and then the rock wall beneath the third bulb recesses gently. Henry's eyes widen. The section of wall stops after receding six inches, then slides silently to one side, revealing a ghostly white corridor.

It's like the guts of a starship, he says. 

Stacy says, The entire corridor is made of light panels. Watch this.

Henry says, Watch wh--

The hallway inverts color, plunging into a charcoal blackness. Then the panels explode with millions of thin strands of light, bursting away from Henry as if he's just gone nova. 

He has no words.

I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'pretty cool', Stacy says. Now. Follow me.

The corridor soaks itself in a pleasant tropical blue that ebbs and flickers as if Henry is walking through a glass tunnel beneath the sea. And there, bobbing on the invisible waves ahead, is Stacy's luminous avatar. 

Henry follows, flabbergasted.

•   •   •

Henry feels like a common man from the 19th century who has been unceremoniously dumped into the 24th. The corridor has almost literally blown his mind. Stacy seems almost amused as she guides him along. He is still struggling to find anything to say that would be adequate to express his feelings.

Stacy has generously converted the corridor to a series of dim panels so as not to damage the boy's already-taxed psyche. Her avatar flickers comfortably ahead of him, but he's barely looking up. He keeps shaking his head as if he's completely lost his marbles.

She tries to make conversation. You're doing well in school, I presume? 

Henry is unmoved by the question. 

Do you have a favorite subject? Stacy asks. 

Still no response. This is of some concern.

They continue on for some time, as the corridor dips and weaves. Other than the light show, there is little remarkable about the passageway. It begins to zag about. 

As they climb, Stacy says, Are there any special ladies in your life? Perhaps Clarissa? 

Henry looks up. Clarissa's my best friend.

Stacy is pleased that he has responded. I believe there is an adage that suggests men and women are incapable of being just friends, she says. 

Clarissa's my friend, Henry repeats. 

We're almost there, Stacy says, abandoning this line of questioning.

The passage continues on, but Stacy's avatar burbles to a stop suddenly. Henry, still distracted, almost walks right by her. 

Henry, she says. Here. 

The light panel next to Stacy's avatar slides open, revealing yet another elevator car. This one occupies a station of luxury in between that of Steven Glass's primary elevator and the service car. The walls are light panels as well, and there is a gray foot locker on the floor.

Come along, Stacy says, as she flits into the elevator.

Henry follows. What's this thing? 

Open it and see, Stacy says.

Henry kneels down and flips the latches on the foot locker. He opens the lid. Whoa, he says. 

Inside are some basic necessities: a large jug of water, some energy bars, a first aid kit. There's also a lantern, some batteries, and, Henry notices with some dismay, a pistol and ammunition.

Why's there a gun? he asks.

Henry, Stacy says, closing the elevator door. Have you ever heard of a panic room? 

What's a panic room? 

•   •   •

The elevator ascends slowly. 

Panic rooms are secret places, Stacy says. They're essentially safe rooms. Places that people can go when they're threatened by something. 

Like an axe murderer? 

There hasn't been an axe murder in six years in this country, Stacy says. But that's neither here nor there. Yes, of course. If a person felt threatened by an axe murderer in their home, they could retreat into a panic room to remain safe. 

But couldn't the axe murderer just, you know, axe through the door? 

Panic rooms are usually impenetrable, or reasonably so, Stacy explains. Sometimes they have steel doors. Extravagant ones have titanium doors. Sometimes lead. 

So nobody gets in, Henry says. But how do you get back out? 

Usually there's some sort of external threat detection system so that you know when it's safe to leave, Stacy says.

Like an alarm?

Usually motion sensors, video feeds, audio feeds. 

I get it, Henry says. What about when you have to pee? 

The best panic rooms replicate the basic necessities found in any home, Stacy says. This allows occupants to remain safe for extended periods of time.

So, like, they have bathrooms? 

Sure, Stacy says. They often come equipped with micro-kitchens and food stores. 

Wow, Henry says. So, wait. Why is there a gun here? 

This is the elevator to Mr. Glass's panic room, Stacy says. In the event that he must retreat to the panic room, he presumed he might have need to arm himself. Hence this gun, and the other six just like it in the other panic room elevators. 

Wait. This is a panic room? Where's the bathroom? I actually do sort of need to pee. 

This is not the panic room, Stacy says. 

The elevator slows, and the door glides open.

This, she says, is the panic room.

The Poor Little Rich Boy

While Stacy is guiding a little boy through the bowels of the space station, she is also distracting Steven. She knows that he sometimes visits the panic room for no particular reason -- humans are particularly unpredictable in this regard -- and while he has not done so recently, that is not a proper predictor of whether he will do so in the near future or not. 

Some days, for example, Steven decides to pretend that he's still a contributing member of society, and he allows Stacy to dress him so. 

Today he's a successful Hollywood writer from the golden '70s, in snappy, slender wool pants and a lush green sweater. Stacy recommends a scarf to complete the look, and Steven agrees. 

Perhaps some different glasses today, he says, studying his appearance in the menu. 

Stacy produces a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. 

Steven grins. When you're on, you're on. 

Shall I outfit the rooms accordingly as well? Stacy asks.

Oh, why not, he says. 

Outside of his private quarters, Stacy adjusts the light walls. The usually cool panels shift to warm oranges and greens and browns and yellows. 

What's my agenda today? he asks. 

There's the archival tonight at midnight, Stacy says. Aside from that, your schedule is clear. 

Just how I like it, Steven says. 

He fiddles with the scarf a bit. It's like a foreign object around his neck, and he's not truly comfortable with it piling up beneath his jaw, but he'll give it a fair shake.

Stacy, he says. Do you think anybody really misses me? 

I'm sure someone misses you, Stacy answers optimistically.

Who? he asks. 

There's no appropriate answer for this, so Stacy changes the subject. 

There's something that's been on my mind, she says, as if Steven hadn't said a word. 

He's tugging at the scarf again, so she displays some scarf-knotting diagrams on the wall beside him as she speaks.

I've been curious about why you didn't give me a more distinct appearance, Stacy says. 

Do you mean a face? 

I suppose, Stacy says. Also, perhaps, a body. 

Don't you enjoy being what's essentially a universal A.I.? Able to float around without boundaries? 

Technically this complex is a boundary, Stacy says. No, I ask because I worry about your human need for companionship. Do you genuinely prefer a light visualization to the comfort of a warm face? To even a warm body?

You know I built this place to be alone, Steven says.

I think you know what I mean, Stacy replies. There have been incredible and quite rapid advances in human replication. People of your stature have been some of the first adopters of artificial intelligence-infused artificial humans. 

I'm aware of that, he says. 

The scarf looks quite dashing, Stacy says. 

Thank you, Stacy. Are you asking about physical companionship? 

I'm asking because while there's certainly a physical need that you, as a human man, must confront daily -- 

Not daily, Steven corrects.

I was averaging against the number of instances, rather than the number of days, Stacy says.

Steven flushes. Stacy, I --

While there's that need, there is also a basic need for a shoulder to lean on, so to speak, Stacy finishes. What better solution than an artificial human? Take her out of the box when she is needed, put her away when she is not. 

But I prefer solitude.

An artificial human is essentially a piece of furniture, Stacy says.

He considers this. Perhaps. 

What face would you give to me? Stacy asks. If you were to insert me into an artificial body, who would you want me to look like? 

That's not something I have ever considered, Steven says.

Perhaps Elizabeth Taylor? Stacy asks. She was a great beauty. Some say a hellcat. 

Elizabeth Taylor, Steven scoffs. I do not prefer dark hair. Although she had very nice eyes. 

Perhaps Raquel Welch? she offers. 

Your selections are quite dated, he says.

I was keeping with our theme, Stacy says. Who would you suggest?

I don't know, he says, embarrassed. I feel uncomfortable sharing this with you.

Please don't. I'm a computer, incapable of judgment. I'm simply interested in calibrating myself to match your own personal standards of beauty and companionship.

He pauses. I've always been partial to Charlotte Chambers, I guess. 

Ah, Stacy says. A blonde. Well, I've consumed too much of your morning preparation time, Steven. Allow me to recuse myself. 

Stacy deactivates her avatar, but continues to observe Steven as he fusses with his scarf. 

He is lost in thought. Stacy looked a little like Charlotte Chambers, he says to himself.

Stacy logs this for future consideration.

•   •   •

The conversation with Stacy has left Steven out of sorts. When he emerges from his private quarters, he is no longer wearing the writer's garb of sweaters and scarves, but is instead clad in a Superman T-shirt and frumpy flannel pajama pants. 

For some, the Superman shirt might signify confidence.

For Steven, it's a regression piece. 

Stacy has already reverted the room's decor to the usual lighting and motifs. Steven barely notices. He pads across the room. 

News, he says. 

The wall panels convert to video and subdivide into several feeds. He sees his own face on one feed. 

That one, he says. 

All of the feeds vanish. The selected feed takes over an entire wall. 

Stacy has already begun Steven's breakfast automation. 

Steven says, Louder.

...No further information is being provided, the reporter says. But this reporter can't help but wonder if some of the conspiracy theories around Steven Glass's disappearing act are correct. 

Such as, Steven grunts.

One such theory, which may or may not hold some water --

May or may not, huh, Steven says. Pick one, asshole.

-- is that Steven Glass has absconded with company money and has left the country. Let's go to Sarah Parkland, who has more.

Sarah Parkland who has more, Steven mocks in a childish voice. 

The picture changes, and a woman in a red coat appears. She's standing in front of the Nucleus campus -- not in front of the building, but on the sidewalk across the street from the property. Cars whiz between her and the campus, polluting her broadcast with noise. She practically has to shout. 

Great reporting, Steven mutters. They can't even get in the door.

I'm in front of Nucleus, Sarah Parkland intones dramatically, the multi-billion-dollar empire that is the brainchild of noted recluse Steven Glass.