by Jason Segel
I hear someone enter the kitchen behind me. I assume it’s Kat coming to inform me she’s done.
“You’re right, Wayne. Simon won’t hurt you,” I hear Nasha say. “But I will.”
What the fuck is she doing here? Did she think I couldn’t handle this? I’m trying not to show it, but I’m absolutely fuming.
Wayne leans back in his chair. “Why, if it isn’t Nasha Ogubu!” How the hell does he know her? I suppose it’s possible he met Nasha through James. But he doesn’t sound shocked in the least to see her here. “I was wondering if it might be you behind the wheel of that big SUV parked outside. Whatever are you doing in beautiful Brockenhurst?”
“I’m looking for Declan Andrews.” Nasha’s very good at this, too. I almost believe her. Maybe I should. “Tell me where he is or I’ll put a bullet through your head.”
“No, you won’t,” Wayne scoffs. “Mr. Eaton here is never going to let that happen.”
“I don’t work for Simon,” Nasha says. “We have other reasons for wanting Declan. We’re told he has a remarkable brain.”
“Indeed he does,” Wayne agrees. “But if I’m not mistaken, the boy standing here with us right now is the one who interests your mysterious employer the most. After all, you took a pretty big risk sending a team to Company headquarters to rescue him. How many men were you willing to lose for his sake? My guess is you wouldn’t even be in Brockenhurst at all if someone hadn’t ordered you to keep him happy.”
My hunch was right. Someone really has been telling Nasha to go along with whatever I want. And Wayne might know who it is. It takes all the restraint I can muster to avoid looking over at her.
Nasha laughs. “You’ve got to be kidding. Simon brought us to you. That’s all we wanted from him. Now he’s no longer of use to us.”
“So you don’t care what makes him happy?” Wayne challenges her. “Then prove it. Kill me. Or torture me. Whatever you like. Just know there’s a very good chance that the same will be done to Declan Andrews. I’m sure you won’t mind—as long as that precious brain of his isn’t harmed.”
I see Nasha raise her gun. Wayne has called my bluff. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I’m not entirely convinced that Nasha and I are still on the same team.
“Don’t worry, son,” Wayne tells me. “She’s not going to do anything. She wouldn’t shoot me even if I told her I was the one who disposed of her husband.”
My head spins back in her direction. Oh, shit. My plan just went totally off the rails.
“That’s right,” Wayne says. “I found James in his office with an Otherworld disk plastered to the back of his head. Killing him couldn’t have been easier. Just cut off his airflow and a couple minutes later it was all over. Let Milo think it was all his fault, and he took it upon himself to dispose of the body.”
Nasha says nothing.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
“Figured I was doing humanity a giant favor. Look at all of the trouble James’s inventions have caused. He never even stopped to think what any of it would mean for the rest of us. The only thing that mattered to him was preserving his own DNA. He was willing to sacrifice everything just to save his daughter. You see, Simon, you think I’m the bad guy, but I’m not. It’s people like James Ogubu who are destroying the world.”
Nasha hasn’t moved. Her hand hasn’t so much as twitched. I can’t tell if she knew all along.
“Now would you look at that,” Wayne says. “I just informed Mrs. Ogubu that I murdered her husband, and she still hasn’t shot me. You know why? Because you don’t want her to. Now why is that, do you suppose?”
Two shots ring out, one right after another. I hear Wayne’s chair topple over, followed by a grunt of pain. Nasha’s face is a mask as she lowers the gun to her side. The world seems to be moving in slow motion as I turn toward what I’m absolutely convinced will be a hole-ridden corpse. Instead, I see Wayne’s legs twitching in the air. He’s alive.
I take a step forward and realize the bullets have blown off the back legs of the chair he’s still strapped to. I’m duly impressed. Even in Otherworld I was never that good with a gun.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask Nasha.
“He’s lucky I let him live,” she says. “He won’t be so lucky the next time I see him.”
“What the hell just happened?” Kat rushes in. She’s still holding a screwdriver in one hand.
“Nasha got trigger-happy. You finished with the security system?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” I tell her.
I can hear sirens in the distance as we sprint through the woods toward my old house. It’s an obstacle course, but Kat and I know the way. Wayne demolished the fort we built when we were kids, but everything else is the same. I still dream about this place. All of my fondest memories took place right here, with Kat. This will always be where I feel most at home.
A flash of garish checked pattern catches my eye. The Kishka is standing in the distance, leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette. He touches the brim of his hat in a greeting right before he vanishes from view.
Just ahead, I can see the roof of the fake mansion where I grew up. Soon the rest of the building and the pool come into view. Nasha’s colleague will be waiting for us in front of the house. I spot my father standing just on the other side of the sliding glass doors. He should be on the way to his office in Manhattan by now, but he’s not. He’s still in his bathrobe, and it doesn’t look like he’s shaved in days. He watches the three of us sprint past. He doesn’t seem to believe what he sees. I know the feeling.
Our driver is parked in front of the house. Kat, Nasha and I jump in and the vehicle takes off at a leisurely pace.
As I catch my breath, the rage begins to build inside me.
“How dare you?” I shout at Nasha. “We had a plan. You agreed to it. Then you did what you wanted to anyway. You could have gotten Declan killed!”
“I was trying to help. You weren’t making any progress,” Nasha says. “The whole trip was a waste of time. Just like I told you it would be.”
“That’s what you think. I got what I wanted. I could have gotten more if you’d butted the fuck out.”
“What exactly did you get?” She doesn’t believe me.
“I’ll tell you when you tell me who you’re working for. Does Wayne Gibson know?”
This time Nasha has nothing to say.
“Who is it? What are they after? Why are they making you do what I want?”
Nasha looks out the window and ignores the question.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Keep your little secret. But don’t you ever get in my way again.”
A very nice lady checks in on him regularly and makes sure he’s having fun.
I could be wrong—there’s always that chance. But after my little chat with Wayne, I have a strong hunch that while Declan’s body is lying in a hospital bed somewhere, his mind’s been sent to Otherworld. Wayne says he has a woman check in on him there, and I think I may know who she is. All it takes is a few quick Internet searches to find her.
According to Todd, Wayne has ten people working at the lab, and only one of them is female. The woman Todd called the artist. She came to the Company from the robotics shop Wayne acquired—the one whose founder is currently occupying a capsule. Wayne may have kept the acquisition a secret from Milo, but the online financial press was all over it at the time. Ronald Wahl’s company was called Skin Job. According to Bloomberg, its robots were designed to function as human companions.
“You know what that means, right?” Elvis cackles over my shoulder. “Wayne bought a dirty-doll factory.”
It’s starting to make sense. Their whole business model depended on robots that looked human up close and personal. I type “Skin Job”
and “artist” into Google and a video interview on YouTube appears at the top of the search results. It dates from earlier this year, around the time Otherworld headsets went on sale. Elvis, Kat and Busara gather around as I click Play. A man with a scruffy beard and spectacles is standing beside a pretty, petite blonde in a flowery dress.
“Oh man, I hate that guy,” Busara says of the interviewer. “He’s a total pig.”
“If by pig you mean sexist pervert, then yeah,” Kat says.
I have no idea who the dude is.
“I’m David Evans from TechSpot, and I’m standing here with Daisy Bristol, head of product development at Skin Job,” the man says, and I immediately hit Pause.
“That’s the artist? Daisy Bristol? She looks like a kindergarten teacher,” I say.
Busara gives me the stink-eye. “You too? And here I was thinking you were the One. You really disappoint me, Simon. I’m gonna have to go find some other boy hero to worship.”
Kat cracks up, but I’m so used to the One shit by now that I barely hear it. “What? I just expect evil-genius sex-doll designers to look a little more…” I search for the right word.
“Male?” Busara turns to Kat. “See what I mean? Totally sexist.”
“Yeah,” my girlfriend chimes in. “Not to mention inaccurate. My kindergarten teacher was a guy.”
“Give me a break! I’m just trying to say that Daisy Bristol looks harmless,” I argue.
“Which makes her even more dangerous.” Elvis decides to keep rubbing it in. “Man, Simon, you really have been drinking the patriarchy Kool-Aid.”
There’s no point in arguing my innocence any further. I keep my lips sealed and hit Play once again.
“Skin Job is a startup based here in Brooklyn,” David Evans says. “You guys specialize in what you like to call robotic companions, isn’t that right?” There’s a lurid grin on the interviewer’s face, and he appears to be directing his question to Daisy’s breasts.
“That’s right, David, but I’m not one of them,” Daisy says in a lovely Australian accent. She bends her knees just enough so the interviewer’s eyes land on her face, not her chest, and gives him a girlish wave. His head jerks up immediately and his face flushes with embarrassment.
“Oh my God.” Kat laughs and gives Busara a high five. “You go, girl.”
David Evans clears his throat. “You’ve brought something to show us today, have you not?” He’s clearly referring to whatever’s beneath the black box that’s sitting on a table behind them, but he keeps his eyes glued to the camera. I think he’s worried he’ll slip up again.
“Yes, I have, David,” Daisy announces confidently. “I’ve been following your show for ages, and I know you’ve always been a big…fan…of the women in our industry, so I created something just for you.”
David’s head jerks in her direction. This clearly wasn’t what he had planned. “You did?” he asks.
“It’s a tribute of sorts,” Daisy tells him as she moves toward the box. “I hope you’re flattered.”
Beneath the box is a head on a silver platter. It’s David’s. Everything about it is perfect—from the vaguely pubescent beard to the hipster eyeglasses. You can hear the cameramen laughing as they zoom in on the face. The eyes blink lazily and the lips form a sultry pout.
“Holy shit,” Elvis says. “Daisy Bristol is one badass chick.”
Kat is awestruck. “No joke. That lady may be my new hero.”
I for one will never judge a woman—or a kindergarten teacher—on their appearance again.
“The head is perfectly operational,” Daisy says. “It can be attached to one of our six classic male body types. We’ll make sure the body comes with your preferred amount of manscaping, and we can even program it to repeat your favorite phrases.”
“You—you copied me,” David sputters. “How did you do this?”
“I’m an artist,” Daisy tells him. “I watched your videos—trying very hard not to vomit at your revolting treatment of women in the tech industry, of course. Then I sculpted a model of your head using clay. Afterward I scanned the model and used our 3-D printers to create a head made from the most skinlike material available. This is a custom creation, of course. Orders like these will only make up a small segment of Skin Job’s offerings. A custom business isn’t scalable at this point, and a head like yours would be too expensive for all but the richest consumers. But if there are any billionaires out there who’d like to keep David as a companion, feel free to place an order today!”
“This can’t be legal,” David croaks. I’m actually starting to feel sorry for him now.
“Oh, it’s perfectly legal,” Daisy informs him. “It takes a while for legislation to catch up with technology.”
“Even if it’s legal, it’s wrong.”
“Is it?” Daisy doesn’t appear to care.
David is stunned. “How would you feel if you’d been cloned for use as a sex doll?”
“Meh.” Daisy dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “It’s not my job to worry about such things. I leave the deep thinking to the ethicists. My job is to create and invent—to push the limits of what can be done. It’s society’s role to figure out whether it should be done.”
Her argument sounds perfectly reasonable until you actually stop and think about it. Once a technology’s out in the world, you can’t stop it from spreading. The interviewer doesn’t look all that convinced, either.
“But—” David Evans starts to say.
“Have you played Milo Yolkin’s new game, Otherworld?” Daisy asks out of left field, and I sit up straight.
“Of course. I tried it out last week,” David replies hesitantly. He doesn’t see where the conversation is going.
“Yeah, I read your fawning review,” Daisy says. “I bet it was hard to write with your head stuck so far up Milo’s ass. Are you going to ask him if his innovations are good for the world?”
“Otherworld is a game,” David says. “It’s just for fun.”
Daisy strokes the hair on the robot’s head. “So is this,” she says with a smile.
The video ends and the four of us sit in silence, staring at the screen.
“I can’t decide whether Daisy Bristol should have a statue built in her honor or if she needs to be tossed in jail to save humanity,” Busara says.
“Both?” Kat offers.
“We have to talk to her,” I tell the group. “I think she’s the one Wayne has checking up on Declan in Otherworld. Remember how Todd used to control the Elemental of Imperium? The last time Kat and I were there, Imperium had a new ruler. An Empress. I’m pretty sure it’s Daisy.”
“How is that relevant? It doesn’t matter what games she plays. You cannot confront that woman.” Nasha’s been standing behind us the whole time, just waiting to poke more holes in my plans. “There’s no guarantee she’ll know where to find your friend’s body. And if you reach out to her, Wayne will know you’ve discovered the lab.”
After the incident in Brockenhurst, I’m not really interested in hearing Nasha’s perspective. Her recklessness could have gotten Declan killed.
“You can’t confront her, but we can have someone pay her a visit.” Nasha holds out a slip of paper. “I took the liberty of locating her address. I’ll send one of my guys to do a little snooping”
I think it’s meant to be a peace offering, and I’m not interested in a truce. I take the slip of paper. “We aren’t sending anyone. Two of us will go. My friends and I don’t need your help anymore.”
Nasha really is trying her best to be civil. She’d love to kick my ass. I can see it in her eyes. Instead she offers a tight smile. “There aren’t two of you who can go,” she argues. “Busara shouldn’t risk straining her heart. And you and Kat have been all over the news again.”
It’s true. After Kat and I were r
eported in New Jersey, every cable news channel camped out in Brockenhurst. They don’t actually have any news to report, so they’re running the old videos back to back. Everyone in America’s been reminded what we look like.
“Then I guess that leaves me,” Elvis announces. “I’ll go by myself.”
“No. You can’t go alone.” Busara refuses to entertain the idea. “None of us goes anywhere solo anymore. That’s the deal.”
I’ve only seen Elvis truly angry a couple of times. Back in school he kept his distance from most of our classmates. He didn’t care about anything—so there was no reason for him to get mad—except for that one time he was reported for being unhygienic. That has all changed. Now there’s someone who’s able to get under his skin. I don’t know exactly what happened while Kat and I were in New Jersey, but it seems like Busara may have finally pushed him too far.
“You’re awfully concerned about my welfare for someone who’s barely spoken to me in days,” Elvis responds without looking in her direction. “If you don’t mind, Busara, I think I’ll take my advice from people who actually want me around. The rest of you guys have any objections to me going to Daisy’s house alone?”
The unexpected fury in his voice keeps Busara quiet. I guess their alone time did not go as Elvis had hoped. Whatever’s going on, I don’t want to be in the middle of it. But when no one answers, I have to speak up. “I don’t have any problem with you going to Daisy’s,” I say. “Anyone other than Busara opposed?”
Kat and Nasha both remain silent.
“Great.” Elvis stands up and addresses Nasha. “Then I guess it’s decided. Now, how are you going to get me inside?”
* * *
—
According to Nasha, the high-rise apartment building where Daisy lives in on the Upper East Side of Manhattan is known for its excellent security. A doorman is always on duty. Cameras monitor every hallway. You even need a special key to operate the elevator. The apartment doors all feature biometric locks. There’s no way to break into a resident’s apartment if you go through the front door. Yet, like many fancy buildings in the city, there’s often no one watching the back door. Dozens of domestics pass through the service entrance each day. Daisy’s cleaning lady is one of them. Today, in exchange for a wad of cash big enough to let her finally retire, she’ll be bringing along an assistant.
