by Jason Segel
“The perpetrators of this brutal assassination attempt are still at large this afternoon,” the reporter continues. “Armed with what the police believe to be 3D-printed guns, they ambushed Winston on this busy Midtown street. The two of them were caught on camera by a passerby.”
The news show cuts to footage from a smartphone. The camera is wobbling, and you can hear its owner squeal with excitement as she captures a video of the famously handsome billionaire emerging from his company’s skyscraper. Then a Vespa speeds into the frame and comes to an abrupt stop. A female is driving, with a male on the seat behind her. They point what look like plastic guns at Scott Winston and his bodyguard. When their bullets hit the mark, the assailants toss the weapons and the female steps on the gas. Winston drops to the sidewalk, and his bodyguard throws himself across the CEO’s chest. But it’s too late for a human shield to be of use. The glass windows behind them have shattered and the building’s walls are splattered with Winston’s blood.
As the assailants wheel the Vespa around to make their getaway, the camera captures their faces clearly. It’s Kat and me.
Holy shit. I can’t breathe.
“The assassins have been identified as Katherine Foley and Simon Eaton of Brockenhurst, New Jersey. According to residents of Brockenhurst, both disappeared from town six weeks ago, two months short of their high school graduation. The pair’s friends and parents haven’t seen them since, but facial recognition software has allowed us to determine their whereabouts on another memorable day.”
A static picture appears on screen. It’s a smartphone snapshot. Milo Yolkin is positioned on the bow of the Staten Island Ferry, about to take his final plunge. In the photo, several Good Samaritans are rushing to grab him while a couple leans against the boat’s railing, smirking at all the commotion. Once again, it’s Kat and me.
“We’ve confirmed that Eaton and Foley were on the Staten Island Ferry the day Milo Yolkin, the Company’s twenty-nine-year-old founder, committed suicide. Whether they played some role in Yolkin’s untimely demise remains to be seen. But Eaton does have a well-documented history of animosity toward the tech industry. Two years ago, he was arrested for hacking into RoboTech, a company that manufactures robot toys for kids. Eaton reprogrammed the toys to deliver terrifying threats, scaring hundreds of small children before the products were recalled.”
“Hey!” Elvis cries out. The robot hack was his handiwork. I think he’s a bit pissed that I ended up with the credit. “It was a warning, not a threat!”
“Shush!” Abigail orders.
“Today Scott Winston was Simon Eaton’s latest target,” the reporter continues. “But police believe Winston may not be Eaton’s last. They’re asking anyone with any knowledge of either Eaton’s or Foley’s whereabouts to contact the authorities immediately.”
Abigail switches off the television and stands in front of us with her arms crossed. She’s looking at me like I’m a little kid who’s been caught pooping in the bathtub. I’m getting the feeling she thinks we’re somehow to blame.
“That wasn’t us,” I mutter.
Abigail shakes her head as if I’m hopelessly stupid. “For God’s sake, of course not,” she says. “There’s no way off this island without my authorization. What I want to know is how they did it.”
“Videos like that are called deep fakes,” Elvis explains. “Similar software’s been around for a while. It’s like Photoshop for video. I’ve heard the Chimera Corporation was set to introduce some next-level tech, but I’ve never seen anything this good. You’d need a lot of video footage to replicate someone that well.”
“We should have known this would happen.” Kat looks over at me. “If the Company can create a virtual world, they can sure as hell edit us into an iPhone video.”
“This changes everything,” I mutter.
“For you, maybe. Not for me. We made a deal,” Abigail says. “I want to know what the four of you are planning to do next.”
That, I gotta say, is an excellent question.
“I’m here with Olivia Dalio, a student at Brockenhurst High,” says the television reporter. “Olivia, you were a schoolmate of Simon Eaton and Katherine Foley, is that correct?”
Olivia keeps her face tilted at a weird angle. I think she wants the camera to catch her good side, but she looks like the recipient of a bad head transplant.
“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia confirms.
“Did you ever see any sign that they might be capable of such a heinous act?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Olivia. “Simon’s definitely dangerous. He once overheard me talking to a friend about Kat, and he got all up in my face and threatened to hack my phone.”
Kat switches off the television. “Awww,” she says, planting a kiss on my cheek. “Did you really do that for me?”
Kat seems to be handling our newfound fame pretty well. I’m still reeling from the shock. The biggest manhunt in years is taking place in the United States. Kat and I have hit the top of the Most Wanted list. We’ve been watching the coverage from two thousand miles away, on an island in the Caribbean. The portraits the police are painting make us look like evil incarnate. We’ve even taken the blame for the building collapse that nearly killed Kat. They say it was a trial run—we were testing explosives. They haven’t bothered to explain why Kat was one of the victims.
Our homes have been raided. Every kid in our school has been interviewed. People I’ve never even seen before have weighed in on our sociopathic tendencies. It’s truly a next-level doxxing. Kat and I will never be able to go home again—not that either of us ever planned to. I’m sure the residents of fancy-pants Brockenhurst are mortified by the exposure. If there’s a silver lining to this bullshit, it’s that. Oh, and watching my father try to avoid the television crews parked outside his office. That’s given me some genuine pleasure. They haven’t gotten to my mother yet. I wonder where she’s been hiding out.
I have to hand it to the Company. They’ve really outdone themselves. Their doctored videos are playing nonstop on all channels. I look at myself every day in the mirror, and even I’d swear one of the assassins was me. The Company must have scanned our bodies while they stole our memories. I wonder if our doppelgängers are anatomically accurate.
The Company didn’t stop there, either. They gave us motives. I’d almost forgotten social media existed, but Kat and I both left behind old accounts that were hacked. That’s where they posted our manifesto. I don’t know who they hired to write it, but they did a fabulous job. It’s beautifully written. The Unabomber meets F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the manifesto, we warn the world that technology will eventually destroy humankind. The talking heads on television have all called it insane. I believe every goddamned word of it.
People still seem to think the world will end with an explosion of some sort. Or armed revolutions. Or environmental collapse. But that’s not how it’s going to happen. The world as we know it will end when there’s no longer a line between the real and unreal. When we can’t trust our eyes. When seeing is no longer believing—and taste, smell and touch don’t help much either. The Earth itself isn’t in danger. The planet will always be fine. It’s humanity that’s screwed. Technology will destroy us the day we can’t tell the difference between what should matter and what shouldn’t.
Most people out there have no idea how close we are to that day. Watching the Company’s videos, I realize we’re even closer than I thought.
Abigail says she expects us to have a plan by tomorrow. Despite everything, we have to save Max. Every cop, security guard and vigilante in the United States is on the hunt for Kat and me. And yet somehow, we need to get into a prison in one of the most densely populated zip codes in America to talk to a famous murderer.
Abigail’s a billionaire. She’s accustomed to ordering the impossible. Who knows what she’ll do to us if we can’t deliver? I wouldn�
��t be surprised if she loaded us all onto a rubber raft and set us adrift in the middle of the ocean. If I’ve learned nothing else over the last few months, it’s that you really shouldn’t trust billionaires. Anyone who’s stashed away that kind of loot doesn’t give a damn about you unless you happen to be one of their heirs.
* * *
—
For the past few hours, Busara has been setting up a security camera and laptop with facial recognition software. Kat is online, researching disguises. Elvis is sitting at the table, surrounded by wires and electrodes. I’ve been pacing back and forth in front of the windows. A man with a giant schnoz is nervously chain-smoking cigarettes by a tree outside. He knows something is coming. He doesn’t know what. I don’t bother to alert my friends. They wouldn’t be able to see him anyway.
“When are you going to give us a demo?” I ask Elvis, pointing to the hat he’s been tinkering with for the past few hours.
He looks up with annoyance, and I expect him to tell me to go away. I probably deserve it. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked. “As soon as I’m sure it’s going to do what I want it to,” he says. “Abigail’s got a pretty impressive tool closet, but she didn’t have everything I was looking for. I’ve had to improvise. If it doesn’t work, I promise you, bro, I’ll come up with something else.”
I’m not sure Elvis realizes how much trouble we’re in. “If it doesn’t work, Abigail’s going to feed us to the fucking sharks.”
“Look, if I can’t come up with a solution, I’ll go to New York by myself,” Elvis says. “Nobody’s going to recognize me. I’m the only one of us without a digital double. The Company hasn’t made my face famous.”
I swear to God, you’d think the kid had a death wish. He’s always volunteering for suicide missions. I suspect it’s because Busara always refuses to let him go.
“Not going to happen.” Busara saves him again. “If they have footage of me, they have you on tape, too.”
“Doubt it,” says Elvis. “I’m very careful.”
“We’re all going to New York,” I say. “If Elvis’s gadgets don’t work, we’ll just have to depend on our disguises.”
This elicits a hearty laugh from Elvis. “You can’t hide with that nose,” he says. “The Company would see right through the disguise.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap back instinctively, surprising myself. It’s been a long time since I felt sensitive about my schnoz. “There are other big-nosed people in the world, you know.”
“That’s not what he’s saying,” Busara says. “Fooling people is one thing. Tricking cameras is much harder. The Company’s facial recognition software can see through most disguises. There are certain things each of us isn’t able to hide. In your case it’s your nose.”
“How many cameras in New York City use the latest facial recognition software?” I demand.
Elvis and Busara both burst into laughter. “You have no idea, do you?” Elvis says. “Everywhere you go, they know who you are. Banks, office buildings, post offices. They’re all watching you. Hell, half the stores in Manhattan use facial recognition to snoop on their customers.”
Kat looks up from her work with a worried grimace. “So we’re stuck here until we figure out how to beat the software?”
We’re in a room that was made for Instagram. A light, fragrant breeze makes the candles flicker and rustles the leaves in the nearby jungle. Most people would want to stay here forever. We’re supposed to leave the day after tomorrow, and I can’t bear to be stuck here a moment longer.
“Will you guys stop with all the praise and encouragement?” Elvis says. “My head’s going to get too big for this cap.”
Elvis puts the baseball hat on and adjusts the brim. Busara doubles over laughing the second she sees it. The only hats on the island were stuffed inside a cooler we found among the fishing supplies. This one says MASTER BAITER.
“You chose that one?” Busara sputters.
It’s hard to tell whether Elvis’s frown is sincere. “I picked the one that best fit my interests and personality,” he says. “You don’t like it?”
“Just don’t let my mom see you wearing that. I told you—she’s seriously old-school. I’ve never even heard her curse,” Busara replies. “So does this mean you’re ready?”
“I’m always ready, sweet cheeks,” Elvis replies with a saucy wink.
God, these two are nauseating. Never in a million years would I have imagined them together. A little over a month ago, I would have sworn that Busara was more robot than human. I still can’t believe she fell for someone who once lived on a diet of Slim Jims and Doritos while he hacked into toy companies. Now Elvis’s sense of humor is a little less filthy, and the rest of him is cleaner than ever. He’s showered nearly every day since he’s met Busara. That in itself is a minor miracle.
And there’s no doubt the two of them make an amazing team. Busara points the camera at Elvis, who shifts from one pose to the next. She studies the image on the computer screen, adjusts Elvis’s hat, looks back at the screen and nods.
“See what you think,” she says, turning the laptop to face Kat and me.
This time I have to laugh. The face on the computer is one I’ll always remember—but it doesn’t belong to Elvis. The hat he’s wearing makes the camera see a completely different guy.
“Whoa!” Kat’s eyes flick back and forth between Elvis and the screen. “Who is that dude?”
“It’s a douchebag named Brett Hamilton,” I say. “Elvis and I knew him at boarding school. As I recall, he once reported Elvis for creating unsanitary conditions in the dormitory.”
“That’s not what matters,” Elvis sniffs, as if offended that I would question his motives. “All that matters is that Brett is a law-abiding citizen of roughly the same age who’s never been arrested and has every reason to be in the New York area.”
“And who did you pick for me?” I ask. If the answer is the one I’m expecting, I’ll know I’ve chosen the ideal best friend.
“Mark Cunningham.”
“Yes!” I pump the air with my fist. “Thank you!” When I was first sent to private school, Mark Cunningham dedicated his senior year to inventing new ways to insult my nose.
“I have no idea why that would excite you,” Elvis says in his best Brett Hamilton impression, “but I’m glad I could bring some joy to your otherwise miserable life.”
Kat walks over to Elvis and lifts his hat. Three small LEDs have been attached to the underside of the brim. “How does this work?” she asks.
“The LEDs project a pattern of light onto your face,” Busara says. “People can’t see it, but cameras pick up on it. It makes them read a different face.”
“And you can make these for all of us?” I ask.
“Sure,” Elvis replies. “The hard work is already done.”
“So does that mean you don’t need any help from the rest of us?” Busara asks.
“Nope,” Elvis says with a sigh. “As usual, I can save the day on my own.”
“Glad to hear it.” Busara turns to us. “If he’s working, I’m going to Otherworld to see my dad.”
Since we arrived on the island, she’s visited her father whenever she’s gotten a chance. I know she worries that he’s lonely. Usually Busara goes on her own. Sometimes she takes Elvis. Tonight she turns to me and Kat.
“Either of you want to come?”
Hidden somewhere in Russia is the black box that hosts Otherworld. After Alexei Semenov’s death, his brother took charge of it. I have a feeling the location of the server was one of the things the Company was hoping to learn when they downloaded my memories. Thankfully, I have no clue where it is.
No one knows where Alexei’s brother is, either. All we know is that he’s spent a good deal of Alexei’s fortune buying up all the limited-edition headsets that the Comp
any produced. A virus destroyed most of the two thousand they’d sold. But there are still a few die-hard fans out there who’ve been trying to hire engineers to fix them. Rumor has it that the younger Semenov is happy to turn to his brother’s extensive collection of kompromat to blackmail anyone who might need an incentive to sell.
But as it turns out, the virus didn’t infect every headset. By the time the virus was set loose in Otherworld, Max Prince had already moved on to OtherEarth, the next big thing in gaming. His three Otherworld headsets were collecting dust on a shelf while the virus was rampaging. As a result, they survived unscathed, and Max’s mother has graciously made the headsets available for our use.
The four of us keep our avatars in a high-rise apartment inside Otherworld’s White City. I haven’t polled my friends lately, but I for one have zero interest in visiting any of the realms. I’m not even sure if they still exist. Otherworld belongs to the Children now. I wouldn’t be surprised if Milo Yolkin’s “accidents” have torn down everything he created and started their world all over again.
I don’t think any of us would visit Otherworld at all if it weren’t for James Ogubu. That’s where his avatar lives—though I still don’t know if the word live can be applied to his existence. The flesh-and-blood man is dead and gone. Only his consciousness survives, uploaded into his Otherworld avatar. After the virus wiped out the headset players, we guided Ogubu’s avatar to the White City from Imra. The White City’s been abandoned for ages. It’s dull and lonely, but it’s safe—and Ogubu’s avatar must be protected at all costs. If he dies in the game, there will be no starting over.
* * *
—
I enter Otherworld and find Busara and her dad stationed across from Kat on the sofa. The Ogubus are listening quietly as Kat fills James in on recent events. They both sit with their spines perfectly straight and their hands clasped in their laps. Their faces remain expressionless while their black eyes glimmer with interest. I’ve never seen a daughter who bears such a striking resemblance to her father. I see nothing of the soft, voluptuous Nasha in her.
