Assured Destruction

by Stewart, Michael F.

  Frannie comes across so startlingly innocent that the Russians actually believe her—one actually asked to speak with her via SKYPE, reminding me that there are real people at the other end of these fiber optic cables.

  I agreed, of course, but when I answered the SKYPE call I didn’t turn on my webcam. He wore silver wraparound shades and this heavy gold necklace. Muscles bulged all over him, and hair tufted out his collar. Obviously Russian.

  If that wasn’t enough, he spoke with a heavy accent and, when he removed his glasses to peer at the screen, his eyes were completely black, as if they were just the pupil. Still gives me the shivers. I didn’t say a thing, just waited until he swore at the computer and disconnected. I know what you’re thinking, but I route my server off a half dozen other servers, so there’s no way they can trace me.

  Given Jonny is sixteen, I’m willing to bet his journal is a little more risqué than Frannie’s. I open the first entry and gasp.

  Looks like Jonny can draw.

  There I am on page one … he actually took the trouble to scan this stuff in.

  And page two. I’m drawn in pastels here with an overlong neck and blank staring eyes.

  The sound of my mom’s wheelchair as it rolls across the warehouse floor warns me that she’s coming. She can never sneak up on me. One day I’ll fix the squeaking, but for now it’s handy. Besides, there are bigger things that need repairing around here.

  Page three: doodles of an alien.

  Page four: me again. A penciled profile of my face, blemish free, nose snubbed upward and eyes shut as if I’m enjoying something. It’s hyper realistic. Shivers rattle down my spine. One thing is for certain, Jonny’s interest in me hasn’t waned.

  I don’t know how to do it without tipping him off that I have his old computer, but when I get to school, Jonny and I are going to have words.

  The drawings confirm it; Jonny deserves a spot on Shadownet. It’s time for me to work my magic. It’s time for Jonny to take his rightful place. He should be honored.

  “Janus, come up for dinner,” my mom calls from the top of the stairs.

  “Half an hour?” I ask. Half an hour is barely enough time to get started but it’s the most I can demand. The squeaks slowly roll away, and then the gears of the elevator crank over as it descends to pick my mom up.

  Thirty minutes for a Jonny makeover. Let’s go.

  Chapter 3

  Each member of Shadownet needs its own hardware. I could house them all on a single computer, I suppose, but there’s something comforting in the physical presence of so many machines. We’re a community and every member has their own quirks. Frannie’s keyboard is a bit sticky. The mouse for JanusFlyTrap doesn’t record every click. And a black bar runs vertically down Heckleena’s screen where the pixels don’t light. I even dressed them up for Halloween.

  To complete the physical setup, I take an old computer tower from a rack of them we save for resale and slot Jonny’s hard drive inside, screwing in the housing to secure it using tiny screwdrivers. I power up the dual-core processors and attach a monitor, one of the old tube kind—people aren’t recycling many flat screen monitors just yet. So far it looks like almost every other computer you’ve seen.

  I draw a deep breath, taking in the subtle scents of heating fiberglass, silicon, and rare metals. I don’t connect to the Internet or to Shadownet yet, I’m always worried about viruses and the like. I probably shouldn’t even have used JanusFlyTrap to peek through the hard drive.

  At this point it’s like I’m trying on clothes at the store. I may like the look of them on the rack, but I haven’t bought anything. To really get invested I need a visual. Jonny requires some way to represent him on the screen that isn’t a real picture of him. This will be Jonny’s avatar, like Heckleena’s screaming lips or Frannie’s doll head. You get the idea.

  I slip the same picture I sent to Heckleena into an application that takes images and turns them into cartoons. I tap the desk, waiting for the result. With a little Ta-Da! sound, the caricature pops on to the screen and I gasp. The cartoon that looks back at me is … well … hot. Not even cute: hot.

  The program melded Jonny’s shaggy hair and gave a twinkle to his deep brown eyes. Maybe the spark was always there and I just didn’t see it? With a face clear of blemishes, he doesn’t look so foolish; full lips curve in a smile more wicked than silly.

  I set the image as his background and screensaver. I catch myself staring and shake my head. It’ll represent him on his social media accounts too. Before I create those, though, he must have a screen name … um … Imsohot? Mr. Jonny Rose? Touch-him-and-die? I need to research this.

  At the heart of any profile is the username and avatar I choose. Sometimes I go with my gut, what I need it to be, but other times like this one I try to understand the person within the bits and bytes. I delve back into his files. My first stop are his photos and videos. He’s got a billion pictures, mostly of graffiti, and I imagine him being some sort of gangster. Maybe the school is his turf and he deals drugs to support his family? Speaking of which, he has a little sister. She’s all of three feet tall, freckled, and her mop of hair is even longer than his. She looks happy in a grubby, I get to roll in mud sort of way.

  The latest shots are from the summer, nothing more recent. What happened a few of months ago? There are no pics of Foxy Lady either. She’s probably the type who’s never home or ignores the kids. But this is about Jonny and his new home—trapped on Shadownet. Jonny the … gangster? No, that’s not quite right.

  I click on a video and clap my palm over my mouth. Jonny sits at a picnic table and strums a guitar. He’s not great and the guitar is out of tune, but his voice is clear and strong. So he’s into music—and a lot of the same groups I enjoy. I scan his Internet cache and see he’s on some music forums, likes horror movies. His browsing history ended three months ago, too. It must have been when he received his new computer.

  So, music, horror, graffiti. Somehow Jonny the Jester doesn’t fit the cute guy staring out at me. I avert my eyes from his gaze, know it’s ridiculous, and so force myself to stare back. Jonny, Jonny … hmmm. I start humming the tune he was singing using his name as the only lyric.

  The last date in his journal is August 23rd:

  Why can’t my parents understand my art? It’s the totally most important thing to me. It’s how I think and get crap out of my head. If I didn’t paint, I’d explode!

  Jonny paints? Jonny Picasso, the artiste—no, there’s more of edge to him. I’m waiting for my aha moment. Frannie’s came when I went to bed and saw an old doll from my long lost childhood. So I named her after my doll and took a photo of it for her avatar. Maybe she represents me trying to get back that time—the time when I had a family and a healthy mom?

  A few years ago, when my mom was first diagnosed, she was really sick and couldn’t even get out of bed. Then my dad left us. I guess he forgot the part of the marriage vows that promised to support her in sickness and in health. I had to take care of the world after that. I ordered pizza every night for weeks and covered for my mom by running the business. We almost lost it. You try doing your parent’s taxes.

  One day, soon after my dad left, my mom asked me to shred a hard drive. Her hand was shaking and it was all really weird. So I plugged it into a casing, of course, and learned it was from my dad’s computer. Looking at the pictures on it I’ve never cried so much in my life. I couldn’t just delete it, so I rebuilt a computer around the hard drive and connected it to mine. Other than the pics, I’ve never looked at the files and emails. One day I might, but for now it’s a vow I’ve kept. My mother will be the one to tell me why he left.

  There’s a picture of her on the desktop and it’s staring at me now: She’s standing on one leg, arms outstretched like an airplane, balancing and grinning from ear to ear. One day, maybe sooner than la
ter, she’ll be gone. At least I’ll have this.

  I read on in Jonny’s journal and try to ignore my own pain, but reading about his frustration causes mine to bubble up.

  Maybe I should paint the house, maybe that would show them! I can just imagine them walking out the door in the morning to find my art covering every inch of the walls—even the roof! The house would be a paradise.

  Paradise.

  I search for the word in his journals and find fifty-seven references. The username Paradise is taken on Twitter so I search his files for a favorite number and discover that his is 57, which is too weird. Paradise57 it is.

  Staring into the cartoon eyes of Paradise57’s Facebook profile (which I immediately friend), suddenly his doodles of me don’t seem quite so creepy. I feel closer to Jonny with our shared annoyance with our parents. I set up a Twitter account for him and a blog, The Art of Paradise, and introduce Jonny to the various feeds. Hey everyone check out @paradise57says—he’s a nube.

  I lean back in the chair, wondering what good can come of this, wondering who I’m exploring here, a new side of me, or am I profiling a boy like a crime profiler recreates a murderer? On Twitter Paradise57 follows a hundred Tweeple who I know always follow back.

  It’s alive!

  Who am I? He tweets.

  “Janus?” my mom calls through the intercom. I sigh. “Come upstairs.”

  “In a minute, I have to feed the cats,” I scream loud enough for her to hear, then listen to the silence.

  I pick up the cable that will tether Paradise57 to Shadownet and hesitate. Frannie, Heckleena, Hairy, Tule, JanusFlyTrap, Gumps, my mom and dad these are my family. They’ve been with me anywhere from months to years. They have photo albums, blog followers, YouTube channels—they represent hundreds of hours of dedicated work. They’re me and they’re not going anywhere. People can leave. People can die. Paradise57 isn’t me yet. He’s Jonny. I turn to Gumps, who’s impartial since he isn’t connected to the others.

  Gumps, 8-ball question: does Paradise57 belong?

  Answer: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

  I take a look at Paradise57’s manga-big eyes and lose myself in them for a minute.

  I plug him in.

  “Welcome, Paradise57,” I say. “Be careful. Annoy me and I will unplug you.”

  He sends a tweet to Heckleena: Why not make the world a beautiful place? A Paradise …

  I smirk as I rattle over to Heckleena’s terminal. Why don’t I chop you into 57 pieces and you tell me what paradise looks like … @Paradise57says

  Yes! I need Jonny.

  I shove my chair back, climb the stairs to the warehouse, and shoulder open the rear door for the nightly cat feeding. Six cats are already here, keeping to the shadows, but I can see them padding over the gravel. Every night I put out a bowl of food. I tell my mom it’s so they don’t yowl all night long, but really, it’s nice to run my hands through the fur of a cat sometimes, even if that fur is flea and tick ridden.

  With the cats happily munching on some Fancy Feast, I climb the stairs to our apartment above the warehouse.

  The upstairs was originally offices, and we converted them to a full apartment. If I ever invite friends over for a party, they all have their own offices in which to sleep. As I shove through the emergency exit door, my mom cries out and snaps her laptop closed. I stop cold.

  “You frightened me,” she says, clutching her laptop to her chest. Her wheelchair is beside her and her legs stretch out on the couch. She’s so small she barely dimples the cushions.

  I remain in the doorway. “Um … sorry, I’ll thump up the stairs louder next time.” She must have expected me to take the elevator, which is noisy and slow.

  “Good.” She seems mollified and relaxes, wrinkles smoothing from her brow. Her long fingers hook mousy brown hair away from her face.

  “What were you doing?” I walk into a large area which would have once been clogged with cubicles and cabinets. Now it is plush-carpeted and filled with two big couches, an armchair, a coffee table, and a dining section replete with IKEA table and chairs. If not for the buzzing fluorescent lighting, it would feel like a real living room.

  “Surfing the Web—you know,” she says. “Online shopping.”

  “As if,” I say, knowing my mom is not one to shop, online or otherwise. “I can find out the sites you were on in thirty seconds—I don’t even need your laptop.”

  She bristles, eyes widening. “Don’t you dare. I deserve my privacy.”

  I can tell by the straightness of her back: She’s hiding something. I decide not to press. And I won’t look at her browsing history, either, but I have a hard time not threatening her. It’s not that I’m ungrateful; I know my mom can’t do as much with the MS, but I never get a thank you from her. I work a minimum of three or four hours every day before homework, more on weekends. I don’t get paid for it. I could be designing apps or doing better in school or just being a teenager, maybe even have a boyfriend.

  My mom is still clutching the laptop with a white-knuckled grip, as if I can read the hard drive from the doorway.

  “I won’t go through your stuff,” I say.

  She swallows and flushes.

  “What—?” I ask.

  “I was on a dating site.” She says it in a rush like if she doesn’t she won’t be able to get it out.

  I clap my palm over my mouth.

  “No!” Then I laugh. “My mom is having cybersex!”

  Her flush deepens. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m kidding, but be careful, please!”

  “It is safe,” she says. “Actually, I’m really impressed by the people on it.”

  “Really,” I say. “Because they obviously look like the pictures they’ve sent you and are who they say they are.”

  She lets the laptop fall to her slender thighs. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Just saying, Mom, you don’t know.” She’s reminding me a little bit of Frannie.

  “Funny thing is,” she says in a weirdly pensive manner, “I wonder if I like it because of that too. No one can see me. My MS.”

  “And you’re the one who’s always telling me to be myself,” I say.

  She sighs and looks at me with a thin mouth. “Sit down, honey.”

  I bite my lip and take a spot in the armchair, curling my legs beneath me.

  “Up until a month ago I hadn’t gone on a date since Dad.”

  I blink my surprise. She’s been on dates in the last month I didn’t know about?

  “They’ve come over here,” she explains, sensing my distress. “I haven’t hidden them from you, but you’re always buried in your computers.”

  They?

  “To be honest, I haven’t felt very womanly since I was diagnosed, and since your dad …”

  “What? What did Dad do?” I ask. On the day they announced their separation, they had this huge fight over something. I have no idea over what and my mom has never trusted me enough to explain. Afterward, she collapsed into a major depression for a month, and I became the head of the family.

  “This isn’t about what happened,” she says. “It’s about how good I feel now that I’m dating again.” She blushes even deeper and I’m stunned.

  “You could have told me.”

  She shakes her head a little. “Maybe it’s time you went on a few more dates yourself?”

  Maybe I am more hurt than I let on, or maybe I’m jealous, but whatever the reason, anger burns through me. “Maybe if I wasn’t chained to the store, I could date.”

  She holds my stare as my eyes water. For once, I wish we could have a conversation without laying on guilt. Her chin drops and she takes a deep breath.

  “Okay, honey, I’ll try to work some more.”

/>   I’m ashamed that I smashed her good mood into a billion fragments and don’t trust my voice not to crack. Instead, I nod and head to my bedroom. The label on my door reads Vice President Sales. I hate sales and I’m finding it really hard not to hate myself.

  A storm is rolling in, and the whole building shakes with each round of thunder.

  Chapter 4

  Good morning beautiful world, Frannie tweets.

  Soon the world will end and you all will be let off the hook for your miserable lives #endoftheworld, Heckleena tweets.

  Hairy adds his intellectual bit to the conversation: Prophets do not have a good track record when predicting the #endoftheworld. I’m standing at the bottom of the steps to my school, fingers dancing over the gorilla-glass surface of my iPhone as I hail the Twitterverse.

  What should Paradise57 write? It shouldn’t be so hard to come up with ideas.

  Good morning, he tweets, and I roll my eyes.

  My school is sort of pretty. Red brick, built a hundred years ago for a couple hundred students. A thousand now attend, and the additions are matched to the heritage with a modern touch in the form of a big glass atrium. Unfortunately the expansion ate up most of the sports fields, but I’m not into athletics anyways. Last night’s storm has filled the air with a fresh-scrubbed scent and crisp energy.

  As I stroll up the twenty steps to the entry, my heart climbs into my throat. Jonny’s reflected in the windows; he’s right behind me.

  “Hey,” he says as he walks right past.

  He’s in through the doors before I can respond.