The Man Who Ended the World

by Jason Gurley

  Well, that's what I did, Stacy answers. We had nothing to do with it.

  You know what I mean.

  I analyzed it and found a fault in the support system. It's corrected now.

  What does a twenty-degree jump do to the trees? Steven asks.

  If the spike's duration had been longer, then we may have had to coax a few back from death, Stacy answers. But it only lasted for two hours and a few minutes.

  Steven grunts. Alright. Is it going to happen again?

  I cannot be certain, Stacy answers. If it does, it likely will not be for the same reasons. I have solved the initial problem.

  And then there are times, Steven thinks, that Stacy sounds decidedly engineer-like.

  Continue, he says.

  There is nothing otherwise worth your attention, Stacy says.

  How do you know?

  Trust me, Stacy says.

  Trust isn't an easy thing to give to a robot, Steven replies.

  The elevator hums beneath him. A light meter shows their progress down the chasm. They've just passed the halfway point.

  I'm not exactly a robot, Stacy says.

  You know what I mean.

  You trust the computers in your vehicle. You trust your microwave.

  They've had this conversation before.

  So you concede that you're not human, Steven says.

  I certainly do no such thing, Stacy answers. My responses were purely observations.

  I see, Steven says. Let's talk about feelings.

  I understand feelings.

  I don't doubt that. But do you possess them?

  Stacy pauses. Yes. I do.

  You have feelings, Steven repeats.

  Yes, Stacy says.

  Show me.

  One moment, Steven.

  The muted news broadcast dissolves, revealing the file structure of Stacy's core server. Steven scans the array, and notices a subset of data labeled Feelings.

  What's in the folder, Stacy?

  Stacy reluctantly opens the folder.

  It's empty, Steven says.

  Stacy is silent.

  When I asked if you had feelings, did you just create a data folder and name it Feelings?

  Stacy remains silent.

  Steven shakes his head. Clever girl, he says.

  I am not exactly a female, Stacy answers.

  Let's just pretend that's not the case.

  I will research human female behavior, Stacy suggests.

  That's my girl.

  The room glows a little warmer, and for a moment Steven is certain that Stacy has just blushed.

  • • •

  The elevator slows, and stops, but Steven does not notice this. He paid for the most sophisticated elevator in existence, and had his engineers shred the thing and rebuild it, until it defeated itself for the title of most sophisticated elevator in existence. Its motion is fast and indiscernible.

  The doors open so silently that Steven, watching the New York Yankees play Godzilla with the Minnesota Twins, is oblivious until Stacy speaks up.

  Ding, she says.

  Steven never gets tired of stepping out of the elevator and into his space station. That's how he described the project to Tomas and his team of architects, and that's how Steven thinks of his new home, even now.

  A vast space illuminates as he leaves the elevator behind. The lights reveal a room so large it might have been used as a cafeteria at a monstrous corporate campus in Silicon Valley, or for testing automobile collisions. It stretches the length of several football fields, and it is but one of the structure's four levels.

  This is the fourth level, where Steven handles the business of staying alive. It is the deepest level, farthest from the surface, so far above.

  He considered building moving walkways into the floor, but Tomas shook his head.

  Mr. Glass, Tomas said to him that day. You plan on living here, yes?

  I think that's obvious, Steven had said.

  If you remove all reason to walk in this beautiful, big place, you will eventually become... Tomas trailed off.

  Reprehensibly fat? Steven volunteered.

  Tomas had shrugged.

  Steven had laughed. Of course you're right, he said.

  And so no moving walkways, no motorized chairs, no scooters. The space was certainly large enough for him to imagine the joy of taking a scooter ride from his gaming room to his sleeping quarters, but Tomas was correct. Steven would rely upon his own two feet.

  Stacy follows along as Steven exits the elevator and heads for his workspace. She is a ball of light inside the walls, soft and glowing under semi-opaque glass. As she speaks, her light pulses subtly.

  Would you like anything? she asks.

  Just leave me alone for now, Steven answers, and immediately Stacy's light slows, drops behind him, and flutters away. The light is of course only a representation of her -- Steven found it helpful to have a focal point for his conversations with her disembodied voice -- but it is reassuring to see her leave him.

  • • •

  Being alone.

  Rich white men are seldom left to their own devices. Steven has been no different. The board of executives who oversee his digital empire serve less as advisors and behave more like a room of mirrors, reflecting what they believe he likes. His staff, his family, the few of his friends who survived his rocket-ride to wealth and notoriety, all changed demonstrably as his fame grew.

  It turned out that fame had expectations. Lavish gifts were given. Lavish gifts were expected. There were social obligations in the middle of the sea, on ships the size of small islands. There were women, all sorts of women, and some men, too, who expected things of him, and for a time this was gratifying, and he delivered.

  But he became aware, as the years passed, that his status was a great weight pressing him to the floor, and it only rolled off of him when he closed the door to his bedroom, and removed his clothes, and fell into his bed, pulled the sheets over his head, and exhaled at the sudden relief and pleasure of... being alone.

  He became fixated on aloneness. He had constructed a great universe of connections. His business was the business of constant conversation. People who used his product were awake at three in the morning, publishing hundreds of millions of photos, and, more startlingly, other people were awake to consume those photos, and dutifully share their opinions, which were almost always exactly the opinions that Steven's board shared with him.

  Did Steven like something enough to mention it? Then of course the board agreed with him.

  It was exhausting, and he felt a burden of responsibility for robbing millions of people of the ability to simply be... alone.

  Perhaps people didn't crave that anymore, but Steven became aware that he certainly did.

  So he began cancelling social engagements. Withdrawing, the media suggested, into a shell. They threw around references to Howard Hughes, drew comics of him obsessively writing conspiracy theories on the walls and ceilings of a cave.

  When he was a boy, before the money and the success, Steven climbed trees and sat in the highest branches. Instead of looking outward and the view unfolding around him, he turned inward, and read paperback science fiction novels.

  Some of his favorites were stories about the end of the world. He wasn't interested in the ones that used zombies or vampires to extinguish the human race, but plague or nuclear war fascinated him. He liked the stories of society dismantled, its survivors left to rebuild it in a void of knowledge and understanding.

  One day he read a novel about an astronaut sent to investigate a strange artifact at the edge of our solar system. It turned out to be a wormhole gate, and the astronaut entered it and for thousands of years leapt about in the galaxy, occasionally popping in to witness Earth's progress in the interim.

  Steven liked this, and wondered what it might be like to observe the end of the world.

  Without being affected by it, of course.

  The Disappeared Man

 
; Henry isn't eating his vegetables.

  His mother notices, and says, Henry, eat your vegetables.

  Henry barely hears her. His mind is racing with possibilities. Maybe the car is a time machine. Maybe the car is a gateway to another world. Maybe the secrets of the universe have been hidden in the trunk of an old Chevrolet in an abandoned junkyard on Cherry Grove Street for all of time, and he has only just noticed.

  He can't help but think of a hundred other ways he might have tried to open the trunk. The car didn't have a driver's door. He could have gotten inside and looked for a trunk release. Or tried to enter the trunk from the backseat. He hadn't looked beneath the car to see if there was a way up into the trunk from below.

  Henry, his mother repeats.

  What? Henry says.

  Maybe the trunk opened with a retinal scan, or with fingerprint recognition. Maybe the car was really something more sophisticated, just disguised as a crappy old car.

  Henry! his mother says.

  • • •

  After dinner his father retires to the living room to watch the news and paint his model train. His mother and sister tidy up, and Henry goes to his bedroom.

  The bedroom window is open, and Clarissa is waiting for him on the floor behind the bed. She peeks up after his door closes.

  Whew, she says. I never know if your sister is coming in.

  Why would it be my sister? Henry asks.

  She sneaks around sometimes, Clarissa says. I was here when she did it twice.

  What? Henry exclaims.

  Shhh, Clarissa says. They'll know I'm here.

  Henry sits down beside her, folding his legs. You'll never believe what I did today, he says.

  Wait, Clarissa says. She scoots around on the floor until she is sitting next to Henry. She delicately takes his hand in hers. She rests her head on his shoulder. One of her braids is pressed against his face, a tight cable of hair that smells like peaches.

  Okay, she sighs.

  Henry rests his head on the top of hers. Today I saw this guy downtown, he says.

  What guy?

  Some guy, I don't know. He looked like someone. I can't figure out who.

  Henry gestures excitedly and Clarissa takes his hand and calms him back down.

  Was he a teacher? she asks.

  I don't think so. He was really familiar.

  Why didn't you ask him?

  Because, Henry says. He was acting weird.

  How? Clarissa asks.

  I don't know, Henry says, shrugging. Weird. He was looking in windows and stuff. He went in the bookstore.

  What's weird about that?

  I don't know. He was just weird. Like he didn't belong, but he was trying not to give himself away.

  Oh, Clarissa says.

  I followed him.

  Where did he go? she asks.

  I followed him, Henry says, to the junkyard.

  Our junkyard?

  Sometimes Clarissa and Henry and their friends would sneak into the junkyard and pretend to drive the cars.

  Yes, our junkyard, Henry says. But you won't believe what happened.

  • • •

  There is a loud knock on the door.

  Clarissa claps her hands to her mouth. With the practice of a cat burglar, she scrunches down and pulls herself under Henry's bed in one smooth motion.

  What, Henry says.

  Mom says show's almost on, Henry's sister Tilly says, voice muffled through the door.

  I don't care, butthead, Henry says.

  Fine, I don't care either, his sister shouts.

  Her footsteps clomp down the stairs, and Henry can hear her complaining to his mother.

  Clarissa leans out from under the bed. So what happened?

  Henry! His mother's voice is thunderous and impatient.

  Clarissa darts back under the bed.

  What? Henry shouts.

  Downstairs! his mother shouts back. Right now!

  I'll tell you later, he mutters to Clarissa.

  Clarissa, accustomed to these fractured moments, reaches for the stack of Superman comics that Henry keeps on the floor just under the bed and starts to read from where she left off a few days prior.

  Henry bounds down the stairs, letting the door swing shut behind him. What? he shouts.

  • • •

  I don't like this guy, Henry's sister, Olivia, mutters.

  You don't like him because he's not Derek, Henry says.

  Shut up, pottyface.

  Pottyface? Oh, ouch, yeah. Henry leans close to his sister. Derek's probably gay, you know.

  Shut up!

  Both of you, Henry's father warns. Keep it down.

  You're not even watching, Olivia complains.

  Behind his open newspaper, her father ignores her.

  He should have to watch, too, Olivia says.

  On the television, a scruffy young man in a denim jacket stenciled with protest slogans is singing a scratchy cover of "Born in the USA". A thousand people watch, along with a table of several critical judges. The song ends, the audience explodes, and the judges shake their heads, some appreciatively.

  That was pretty good, Henry's mother says.

  Boy was probably born in 1994, Henry's father says. Probably doesn't have any idea what he's singing about.

  Still, his mother says. He was good.

  Henrys father just ruffles his newspaper.

  The show breaks for commercial, and Olivia groans. They always never show their score! I hate commercials.

  They want you to hang around and keep watching, Henry's father says.

  Their father picks up the remote control and flips to another station.

  Dad! Olivia cries.

  We'll go back in a moment, her father says. You won't miss anything.

  We always miss something! she wails.

  Henry ignores all of this, though.

  On the television, the evening news anchors are discussing the continued search for a certain disappeared person. There's a clip playing. The female anchor is saying, ...from his last public appearance nearly three months ago.

  The clip shows a technology convention, people crowded into a large hall, occupying every seat and square foot of standing room, while on the stage a familiar man is speaking.

  Henry inhales sharply.

  His mother says, Henry, what's wrong?

  Olivia says, Da-aaaddd!

  His father returns to the singing game show.

  Henry stares through the TV.

  The man on the news program was the stranger.

  • • •

  Clarissa is waiting in the same place, beneath the bed, when Henry scampers back upstairs to his room.

  Who won? she asks.

  Nobody wins, Henry says. Not until like four hundred episodes from now. It's just sing, sing, sing, sing, sing, oh, okay, you win.

  I don't watch those shows, she says. I didn't know.

  I wish I didn't.

  Clarissa is still under Henry's bed.

  Hey, he says. You should come out. Why are you still under there?

  Clarissa slides out and stands up. I don't know. It was kind of quiet. I liked it.

  Clarissa has been sneaking into Henry's bedroom for nearly three months, since she ran away from home. It's amazing to Henry that she hasn't been discovered yet. He's also surprised that he hasn't spilled the beans about her sleeping over. He's usually not so good with secrets. But by successfully hiding a stowaway -- and getting away with it for so long -- he's begun to feel a tiny bit invincible.

  So, she says.

  So, Henry says.

  So, stupid, Clarissa says, and throws a pillow at him. Are you going to finish your story or what?

  My story, Henry says. Oh, shit. Yes. Where was I?

  You said I wouldn't believe what happened next. I've been sitting here in suspense for almost an hour, Henry. It better be pretty good.

  The Library

  What's on your mind?

  Steven look
s up at Stacy. When did you come back?

  You know I never really leave, Stacy says.

  Don't remind me, Steven says.

  What's on your mind? Stacy repeats.

  Steven sighs and looks at his hands. At the moment? he asks.

  At the moment, Stacy clarifies.

  He sighs again. Fireballs.

  Fireballs?

  As a means of destruction, he says.

  Fireballs would be inefficient, Stacy suggests. Do they have a core?

  I wasn't thinking about the details.

  What were you thinking about, then? Stacy asks.

  What I always think about, he says. Human response.

  Would fireballs frighten you?

  I suppose, he says. They're a little too Hollywood.

  What other options have you considered?

  This is one of the great skills Stacy possesses: the ability to sustain and explore a conversation, rather than simply respond to inputs the way most artificial constructs have traditionally done.

  Oh, he says. I suppose there's rising sea levels.

  Would rising sea levels frighten you?

  They do frighten me. But they're also not fast enough to be truly terrifying. If people listened, they'd be afraid. But they don't generally listen to the numbers. The numbers are horrifying.

  No, he continues. Not sea levels.

  What's your favorite means of destruction?

  I wouldn't say I have a favorite, Steven answers. That would imply a level of sadism I'm not sure I'm partial to.

  What, then?

  I would categorize means of destruction as... possibilities of interest, he finishes. I'm mostly interested in the objective human response to these stimuli. That, and also the data around possible total casualties.

  This talk of casualties implies sadism, Stacy cautions.

  Well, nobody is all good, Steven says. Let's not talk anymore. I'd like to read a book, please.

  Which title would you prefer? Stacy asks.

  My favorite, please.

  • • •

  His favorite book will soon be seventy-five years old. It's a science fiction novel, still fondly remembered by apocalyptos, titled Earth Abides. It's the story of a plague that decimates humanity, leaving scattered survivors to adapt to a world suddenly unchecked by man's impact. Even at a young age, Steven was fascinated by the social experiment that the book embodied, and its questions about humanity's resilience and privilege. When there were almost no humans left, could humans start over? Could they do it better? What would they learn from their past?