by Stan Lee
Irritated, she looks toward the boy, now paused nearby. He is still looking at the device in his hand, animatedly tapping at it. Xal’s body relaxes further; he is in no hurry. She has time. And loath though she is to do it, if she’s going to pursue a member of the species, she supposes she’ll need to pass for one herself. The cat-creature whose skin she took on arrival is liked by humans, but clearly not respected. The foul-smelling man hasn’t just plucked her from the ground, but is now carrying her toward a makeshift shelter, cradling her, manipulating her body with his fingers.
“Nice kitty,” he mutters. “Nice, weird, ugly kitty.”
Xal waits until he turns the corner and allows herself to be pulled close. Clutching her in his arms, the man crouches down, settling on the pavement, and begins stroking her head. For a few moments, she lets him.
Then she takes what she needs.
The human doesn’t fight her. He whimpers as he dies.
9
A Taste of Freedom
There’s no sign of Nia’s father as she slips back through the narrow window and into the classroom, still high on the exhilaration of escape. Reeling as much from her own shocking audacity as from the brief experience of freedom. She did it. She defied Father, broke his most dearly held rule. She traveled beyond the walls of the compound and into the city. She had been out there.
It had taken her weeks to plan it, and even then she wasn’t sure until the last moment that it would really work. So much could go wrong. Father’s nominal monitoring of her online activity was easy enough to circumvent, but if he looked more closely—if he went snooping deep into her activity logs, or even just decided to run an end-to-end security check, he’d see what she’d been doing. She’d done her best to cover her tracks, but there was no way to completely hide the way she’d compromised his security systems. She discovered it weeks ago: a small opening in the structure of the classroom, an unmonitored blind spot just big enough for her to slip through unnoticed, without tripping any alarms.
But it was risky. Not just getting out, but coming back—and Nia feels a spike of fear, realizing she can’t be sure what she’s coming back to. If Father came home, if he came looking for her . . . but no. The classroom is as she left it, the virtual world vibrant and intact. It’s not a biosphere or an art studio today, but a jostling sea of people, laughing and cheering in a vast, sunny city square. Many of the men are wearing uniforms, and many of the women are kissing the men, a sight that fills Nia with a surprising and intense sense of longing. To kiss someone like that, she thinks with a sigh. To be kissed like that, with so much joy, in front of everyone. All around the kissing couples are people holding signs or small flags, and high above the crowd, an electric sign blares two words: JAPS SURRENDER. This is New York City on August 15, 1945, as the United States of America celebrated the end of World War II. It was a conflict that left beautiful cities in ruins, that took millions of lives; Nia has often wondered at the sheer joy of the scene, how these people can look so happy about winning after the whole world lost so very much. But today, she wasn’t using this learning world to study history or ponder the strangeness of its postwar victory dance. She was using it to hide.
Father didn’t like to disturb her when she was immersed in a construct. Usually, he’d steer clear of the classroom altogether, trusting her to come find him when she was finished—but if he got curious and peeked in, Nia was prepared for that, too. He’d see the people of 1945 New York milling about and leave her to her work. She’d even created a busy-looking decoy to complete the illusion: a Nia avatar, wandering through the crowd, pausing here and there to unpack historical details about the people, the buildings, the spectacle. It’s not her best work. Despite having painted a thousand pictures of her feelings over the years, Nia still isn’t much good at them, and even worse at self-portraits. But as a last layer of subterfuge, surrounded by a busy landscape made of nanodust, the avatar isn’t bad. If you call to it, it’ll even smile and wave.
As it turns out, all her precautions were unnecessary. She can tell as soon as she steps inside that Father hasn’t been in to check on her. In fact, he hasn’t been home at all, and Nia isn’t surprised. He’s been busy lately with some kind of project, something that keeps him away all day and leaves him agitated and distracted in the evenings. When he left early this morning, he didn’t even remind her about lessons or homework, and whenever he gets back, she bets he’ll forget to check. There was a time when she would have called attention to that. Ever the dutiful daughter, begging him to talk to her or play a game, trying to draw him out and make him feel better—and maybe make him feel guilty, too, about leaving her alone so much.
I really am growing up, she thinks. She’d never beg for his attention now; in fact, she’s glad to be ignored. Let him think she’s sitting complacently at home, immersed in her studies. Let him think she’s still his very good, obedient girl.
Because she’s not. Not anymore.
When the time came, it was quicker and easier than she’d ever imagined: one moment she was worming her way through the air filtration system, and the next, she was out. Outside the walls, out in the world, so suddenly that she almost turned and dove back in. In all her wildest dreams, she had never imagined that out there was so big.
But she couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not until she’d found what she was looking for. Not until she found her way through the city to him.
To Cameron.
She can’t stop thinking about him. Reaching out to him was risky, impulsive—and earning his trust wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. She’s never felt such an instant connection. They come from different places, they have different lives, but Cameron isn’t like her other friends. He’s like her. The closest thing to a person like her she’s ever known. Chatting with him is already the best part of her day. And even as she knows she’ll have to be careful, that if he’s going to be the one to save her she can’t be hasty, she can’t help it. She wants more. He is incredible. The world is incredible. She’s already wondering when she can escape into it again.
His messages are waiting when she logs on. She reads them three times, amazed that a few lines of text could make her feel so much.
I SAW YOU!
THAT WAS YOU!
Wasn’t it?
Where did you go?
Hello???
* * *
Nia pauses, her mind cycling through every article she’s ever read about negotiating relationships with boys. It’s odd, because she’s never worried about that before; the articles were just something to read for fun, like travel guides for places she’d never visit or recipes for dishes she’d never get to try. But that was before—when she was just a girl in a box, with no real hope of escaping it. She had plenty of friends who were boys, and she never thought twice about talking to them; if one stopped returning her messages, there was always another friend to take that person’s place.
But Cameron is special. She saw him. She was with him. If she hadn’t been too afraid to stay, they could’ve gotten close enough to touch. For the first time, Nia understands what he means when he talks about “real,” because that’s what this could be.
And when it comes to a real relationship, all the articles say the same thing.
Don’t respond right away. You don’t want to seem desperate. When he messages you, make him wait.
Nia makes him wait.
She makes him wait a whole five minutes.
* * *
Then, she sends her reply.
It was me. I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry.
Cameron doesn’t seem to know the rules, or maybe the rules are different for boys. He doesn’t make her wait at all. As soon as her text goes through, his pings back:
What were you doing there? I thought you were homeschooled.
I was looking for you, of course, Nia replies. What were YOU doing there?
That’s a secret, he says.
Nia decides to risk a compliment: I liked what you did with t
hat boy’s phone.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, he writes back, but there’s a winking emoji attached. Nia replies with her favorite gif, the one of the brown and white dog, smiling. This time, there’s a long pause. Then:
* * *
If you really liked it . . .
And Nia replies immediately, I did. I liked it a lot.
I have an idea. Something I want to do. But it’s complicated. I thought maybe you could help me.
How can I help? she asks.
His answer is a question.
What’s the most embarrassing song you know?
10
Daggett Smith:
Signing Off
“Check, check, check,” Daggett Smith grunts, and looks past the camera at his producer, who offers a tentative thumbs-up. It’s just a few minutes till showtime, and he needs to get his levels right. In his ear, the producer pipes up.
“That’s fine, Mr. Smith, but . . .”
“What? Spit it out, pal. You know, like your mother didn’t.” Daggett laughs uproariously at his own joke, enjoying the awkward, uncomfortable expression on the man’s face as he chuckles weakly along.
“Heh, heh. Yeah. Well, it’s just, once you get going, the decibel level isn’t so conversational, so—”
“CHECK!” he yells, and the producer jumps. Daggett gives this guy another three weeks, tops, before he quits. The employee turnover rate on his show is a running joke, one Daggett himself finds hilarious. Nothing gives him more pleasure than catching some sniveling loser fresh out of college and super cheap—some special snowflake who thinks he should be paid not just in money but in back-patting encouragement—and crushing his spirit into a fine powder.
“That’s more like it. Thanks, Mr. Smith. Two minutes.” The thumbs-up is shakier this time; the producer looks like he’s trying not to cry. Daggett mentally dials down his original estimate. Three weeks? Pffft. More like one. Max.
Some kind of low-grade commotion is brewing outside the bright circle of light that envelops the set, but Daggett tunes it out. He can’t worry about that now; there’s a show to do. He takes a peek at the monitors, checking the feeds on the camera which is set up to catch his best angle—of which he’d be the first to admit there’s only one, and even that one isn’t especially great. Daggett’s ego might be legendary, but he’s not delusional; he knows he looks like a fleshy toad in a bad hairpiece squatting behind this desk, and that no amount of makeup will ever hide the fuchsia-colored spots that bloom all over his face when he’s deep into a really good rant. And that’s fine with him. His audience doesn’t care. They tune in because they want to hear what comes out of his mouth and his brain, not to jack off to a pretty face. If they want watered-down conserva-centrism from a fake blonde with fake tits, they can get it on Fox News.
He shuffles his notes, taking a mental run through his opening remarks. It’s going to be a hell of a show. He’s bringing the heat today, fresh on the heels of his “Smallpox in the Burka” episode, which was a massive hit. This time, he’s got a hot tip that several Democratic senators have been running their own underground railroad, smuggling weaponized tapeworm larvae into the U.S. from Mexico, in the stomachs of illegal immigrants. It sounds like bullshit—probably because it is—but Daggett doesn’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about whether the stuff he reports is true. The people have a right to know what kinds of rumors are out there, and they can decide for themselves if they want to believe them. What’s important is that it could happen—and that Daggett Smith is the man, the trusted voice, who tells them what’s out there . . . hypothetically. Do the red-blooded citizens of Real America want to live in a country where a bunch of undocumented Mexicans could come into their city and infect an entire Golden Corral buffet with biological worm weapons? Let the people decide!
His earpiece crackles.
“Mr. Smith?” It’s the producer again—sounding more in control of himself, but there’s an edge in his voice. “We’re on in thirty, but some of the equipment is acting up. Just keep your ears open, ’cause we may have to drop in some filler—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Daggett waves impatiently, beginning the countdown in his head. He shuffles his notes one more time, and nods as the light goes on. On the monitor in front of him, he can see himself sitting behind the desk, his massive TRUTHINATOR logo glowing a patriotic blood red over his shoulder. He clears his throat. On the monitor, Screen Daggett does the same.
“My fellow Americans, thanks for tuning in,” says Screen Daggett. “I’m Daggett Smith, and . . . and I . . . I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!”
In real time, in real life, the real Daggett Smith says, “Wait, what?”
He stares at the monitor, where Screen Daggett, the Truthinator, has risen behind his desk and begun turning an ungainly pirouette, continuing the Sondheim song in perfect falsetto.
“I DIDN’T SAY THAT!” screams Daggett, pounding his desk. For a minute he thinks he’s regained control; the Screen Daggett on the monitor pounds the desk, too, his face flushing from red to a mottled purple color. But instead of saying what Daggett is saying, Screen Daggett howls, “La-la-la-la-la LA-LA lah, la la!” And begins singing rapturously about how oh-so-charming he feels.
“Cut the feed!” Daggett yells, and then feels his knees go weak as he hears the voice of his producer in his ear.
“We did,” the man says. “Ten seconds ago.”
Screen Daggett prances and chirps as Real Daggett howls with impotent rage and face-plants into his desk. He wonders if he’s having a stroke, and then wonders if he could make himself have a stroke and use it to explain away what happened—what is still happening.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” says the producer, stepping into the lighted circle of the set. The camera is beside him, and he reaches out to gently push it askew, knowing as he does that it’ll make no difference. On the monitor, and on millions of screens worldwide, Daggett Smith is still dancing and singing—even as the man himself lies splayed, groaning, across his desk. On Twitter, #DaggettFeelsPretty has begun to trend worldwide. The producer reaches out awkwardly to touch the man’s shoulder, which is damp with angry sweat.
“You’re fired,” Daggett Smith says, weakly. “You’re all fired. Everyone in this room. All of you. You’re finished.”
“Yeah, about that,” the producer says. “Everyone else left. It’s just me.”
Daggett lifts his head. “What?”
The producer winces. “I think they figured they didn’t have jobs anymore, and nobody wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I don’t think you have a job anymore, either.”
* * *
Within the hour, there’s no shortage of theories about just what happened in the studio that day, with eager internet commenters floating every possibility from a nervous breakdown to demonic possession. One guy in Nebraska goes viral for insisting he knew all along that Daggett Smith was an animatronic ventriloquist dummy, created by scientists as some kind of anthropology experiment. But everyone agrees that Smith’s career-torching meltdown—featuring a surprisingly melodic rendition of the cheerful West Side Story number as his swan song—was the most perfect ninety-three seconds of internet video ever created.
For Daggett, it takes a little longer to accept his fate.
“What if we release a statement?” he asks. The words are slurred; he and the producer, whose name is either Brian or Brendan, found a bottle of vodka stashed in someone’s desk and have been drinking from it since the final episode of The Truthinator reached its abrupt, unplanned conclusion several hours before.
“Saying what?” Brian-or-Brendan replies.
“That I was hacked, obviously!” Daggett says, exasperated.
“Minor issue there. See, ‘I was hacked’ is what you said after you tweeted about roving gangs of mutant Jews living in the sewers—”
“Yeah, but—”
“And after you sent the secretary of st
ate that email calling her a baboon-faced butt muffin—”
“But it’s true this time!” Daggett cries. “I really was hacked! I had to be! Who could possibly believe that I would do . . . do that, on camera? I can’t even sing!”
“I know, Mr. Smith. But here’s the problem.” The producer pauses to take a deep, long swig of vodka, and then stands up, leaving the bottle at Daggett Smith’s feet. “Nobody cares.”
And it’s true: nobody does. Even after several days, when it becomes clear that Smith is, indeed, the victim of the best-executed hack in human history, because his entire internet presence, from his website to his podcast archives, disappears overnight, replaced by an endless scroll of pot brownie recipes and the instructions for making a gravity bong. Typing his name into any search engine causes the user to be automatically redirected to the Wikipedia entry for “micropenis.” When Smith tries to take control of the narrative on social media, his carefully crafted statements disappear within seconds and are replaced by the same photograph of a llama wearing a tutu. In the end, Daggett Smith quietly disappears from the internet—the same day that a petition to award his hackers the Nobel Peace Prize starts circulating on the web.
It gets a million signatures within a week.
And Cameron Ackerson, who once dreamed of being internet famous for uncovering the secrets of Lake Erie, starts dreaming of doing much, much bigger things behind the scenes.
I can’t believe how real it looked, he writes, as he watches the video of Smith’s meltdown for the hundredth time. His mouth even moved like he was singing it. How did you do that?
Nia’s message pops up immediately. Motion capture. I mapped the data points from Natalie Wood’s performance onto relevant clips from his program and fed it through the software from the same special effects studio where they made AVATAR.
There’s a pause, then his phone pings again. I think I messed it up, though. He turned out really red.
