The Man Who Ended the World (4 page)

The book reports were due a few days later, and he wrote a dissertation about the human species and its eventual end. He handed it in proudly. 

The next day, each child was asked to read his or her report aloud to the class. Steven suffered quietly through seven papers written about Ramona Quimby, one about a picture book, and eleven others that were the most boring things he'd ever heard. 

Then Miss Lehman stood up and segued into a mathematics lesson, and Steven was outraged. Where was his report? Why wasn't he allowed to read it? Did he get a grade? Did he fail? Was his report too good? 

After class, Miss Lehman returned his paper to him with a small yellow card stapled to it. 

PLEASE HAVE YOUR PARENTS SIGN THIS CARD
, it read. Below it was a short message suggesting that his parents call to arrange a conference. 

Steven was eight years old. 

The first sentence of his book report read:
There are literally thousands of species who live on this planet, and there is nothing special about mankind that should preclude his eventual extinction.

•   •   •

Steven is not a swimmer, but he has decided to become one. He does not run, and yet, it seems like a good idea to learn how. And so the third level of the space station has been designed for a parallel-universe Steven, one who swims and runs and knows what a kettlebell is. 

Today Steven wakes early. The walls of his sleep quarters simulate natural daylight, timed to actual day and night cycles. A gauzy curtain hangs over the walls to complete the illusion of sunlight. At night, the walls dim except for in scattered pixels that are mapped to local star patterns. 

The space station is everything the last man on Earth could want.

He blinks himself awake. 

Good morning, Stacy says. 

I think I'll swim today, Steven says. 

I'll warm the pool, Stacy says. Do you prefer a suit today?

Since he moved out of his parents' home and into his first apartment, one of Steven's pleasures has been walking around naked. But in the space station, he has the idea that he will have lost something of civilization if he simply flops about like an ape. Each morning, then, Stacy presents several wardrobe options that she has selected from a library of clothing hidden deep in the walls. 

But today, he thinks, he just wants to be himself.

No suit, he says. 

Very well, Stacy replies. And your outfit for the day? 

No outfit.

I'll avert my eyes, Stacy says. 

Suit yourself, says Steven, climbing out of bed. But I wouldn't mind. 

•   •   •

Level three is beautiful, but it is not yet Steven's favorite zone. He has never been what people regard as unhealthy, but he is comfortably overweight, shy of obese, and eschews exercise that does not contribute something to his more creative goals. 

Still, he attempts to visit level three once every day or two. 

He occasionally refers to it as hell.

Stacy had offered to rename the location to Hell in her mapping system, and for a moment, Steven considered it.

He swims for a time, understanding in theory that he should be synchronizing the motions of his arms and feet to propel himself forward more effectively, but unable to execute this theory very well. His arms bravely cut through the water. His legs drift below the surface, flailing about now and then. 

You appear to be struggling, Stacy says. 

Steven's face is beneath the water when she says this. Her voice hums through the water, startlingly clear. He had forgotten that he specified that she should be audible in all circumstances, from any place within the space station. 

He realizes for the first time that this means that he will not have privacy even when he is drowning. 

He stops swimming and stands up in the pool. The water reaches his collarbone.

I'm not struggling, he says. 

Your physical efforts do not match usual water exercise patterns, Stacy observes. I concluded that you were struggling.

Well, I wasn't. Anyway, how would you know? 

The west wall of the room is overtaken with a collection of still and moving images. Stacy flings them onto the wall quickly and irregularly. There is an image of a dog paddling in a lake. A home video of a boy swimming in a small pool. Another video shows a scuba diver chasing fish. There are dozens more, including footage from Olympic events, a clip from an old science fiction movie,
Gattaca
, and clips of Aquaman shooting through the ocean in old Justice League cartoons. 

I conducted some visual research and compared my findings to your behavior, Stacy says. 

I was swimming just like any one of those, Steven protests. 

I analyzed your wave and wake patterns, and searched for similar behaviors as well, she responded. 

The images of powerful swimmers shrink out of view, and Stacy flings new images into the wall. The struggling monster squid from
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
. Mickey Mouse drowning in a flooding room, from
Fantasia
. An animation of a mammoth twisting about in a tar pit. 

Oh, shut up, Steven says. 

He slogs through the water to the steps, and climbs out of the pool, naked. 

Will you be continuing your exercise regimen? Stacy asks.

Steven rests his hands on his knees, then looks up at Stacy's glowing orb. What?

You've completed a moderate level of aerobic activity, she says. Perhaps you would be interested in some weight training, or resistance exercises?

You're my goddamn trainer now?

Frequently when he snaps at her, Stacy's responses become cooler and more formulated. 

I detect a hostile response, she says now. 

You're goddamn right, he says, angry now. You just compared me to a drowning elephant.

I believe the subject was a mammoth, and it was not precisely drowning.

New rule, he shouts. Don't bother me on level three unless it looks like I'm dying. Understand? 

I understand, Stacy says.

Fucking good, Steven mutters. 

In my defense, Steven, Stacy adds, I was not certain that dying was not exactly what you were doing in the swimming pool.

Stacy, Steven says.

Sir? 

Fuck the fuck off, please. 

Fucking off, sir, she says. And Stacy's light hops away, dimming as it goes. 

He blinks at her use of profanity. 

That was new. 

•   •   •

After his swim, Steven retires to his own library, recessed into the eastern wall of level four. It is encased in glass, with a single desk in the center of the room, surrounded by  dozens and dozens of banks of servers that radiate out from the center in gently curved arcs. He crosses to the desk, leaving wet footprints behind on each pale floor panel. Stacy patiently flips each floor panel behind him, replacing it with its dry underside. 

Stacy, he says. Show me today.

The desk's surface flickers to life, and images begin to flit across it. There are video segments displaying the day's news -- the Iranian rebellion, the final game of the World Cup, the little girl in Manitoba who donated her own savings to the hospital caring for her little brother. Thousands of written texts pass by. Critical reviews of new technology. Reports of political gains and roadblocks. 

Archive it, he says. 

The desk's surface changes to reveal a simple file structure. A data stream pours into a container labeled 2023. 

Archived, Stacy says. 

Let's go play some games, Steven says. 

Would you like to dress first? 

Steven looks down, then at Stacy's orb overhead. 

Does my penis bother you? he asks.

Your penis is fine, Stacy answers.

Then let's play some games.

The Secret Hideout

He was on the news again last night, Henry whispers. 

I still don't understand why he's famous, Clarissa says softly.

That's because you don't use Nucleus.

I don't have a computer.

I know. But everybody uses Nucleus. 

I don't.

Dummy, Henry says. I just said I know. 

Don't call me dummy, dummy, Clarissa whispers. 

My dad says when he was a kid they used a thing called Facebook, Henry says. He says it was sort of like the ancestor of Nucleus. Except you couldn't sightlink or touchlink. You had to send these messages asking someone if they would be your friend. 

I don't know what we're talking about any more, Clarissa says.

Forget it. 

No, Clarissa pleads. Teach me!

What's the point? You have to see these things to understand them. 

Clarissa is on the verge of tears. I want to go home. 

You don't have a home, Henry says.

She begins to weep. Henry looks startled, then resentful, then helpless. Clarissa turns and crouch-runs away from the junkyard fence. 

Wait, Henry says. He turns and runs after her. 

Go away, she says.

Wait, no. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. 

No, you aren't. 

I am, I really am. I didn't mean it.

She sniffs. Then why did you say it? You're my only friend.

Henry shrugs. I don't know. I don't know why.

If you don't know why, then why did you? It doesn't make sense. 

I don't know. He shrugs again. I'm... I'm an eleven-year-old boy. 

That doesn't explain anything. I'm going ho-- 

She begins to cry again. 

I know. But it's okay. It's okay. 

He touches her hair tentatively, and she looks up at him, surprised. 

Why did you do that? 

Shrugging is becoming his only means of communication. I was trying to, I don't know. Maybe make you feel better.

She stares at him, then smiles. Her cheeks push up into her eyes, and tears spill over them. 

She throws her arms around him. He is startled, and then puts his arms around her, too. Her grip grows tighter. 

Into his shoulder she says, I wish I could go home. 

Henry doesn't know what to say. 

•   •   •

Clarissa allows Henry to coax her back to the junkyard fence. He promises her that, if the mysterious billionaire emerges, it will be a sight to see. She imagines smoke and fireworks and glamour, but knows that won't be the case. She can imagine a man climbing out of the trunk of a Chevrolet.

What's more interesting to her is why he went into it. 

This is something that Henry seems not to have considered. Men don't simply disappear into cars for the spectacle of it. Henry is caught up in the excitement of having witnessed something unusual, but hasn't slowed down long enough to wonder why that moment occurred. 

Clarissa is certain that the man is not simply sleeping in the trunk. Rich men have better places to sleep, even if they're trying very hard to get away from other people.

Henry, she whispers.

Henry has one eye pressed to a knothole in the wooden fence. 

What, he says.

Why do you think he went into the car? 

I don't know, Henry says.

No, really, she says. She puts her hand on Henry's shoulder and tugs him away from the fence. You haven't thought about it? 

I don't know, Henry says again. I guess not. 

Henry, why do people climb into the trunks of cars? she asks.

He considers this. They don't? he finally says. 

That's right, she agrees. They don't. 

He stares at her, still seeming to miss the connection.

Henry, she says. What does that mean?

I don't know. 

She's beginning to get frustrated.

If I told you to get into a car's trunk for no reason, would you?

Pshfft, Henry sputters. No. 

Well, what would make you want to get into the trunk of the car? 

He finally seems to think about it. Maybe there's money in there? 

Okay, that's a decent enough reason. But he already has like six hundred bazillion dollars. 

Maybe it's a
lot
of money?

Think about it this way, she says. Did you see him come out? 

Nuh-uh, Henry says. He didn't come out.

And how long did you wait and watch the car? Clarissa asks.

Maybe ten minutes? he says.

And if you were in the trunk of a car, wouldn't you want out long before ten minutes? 

Not if I was asleep, Henry says. Hey, maybe he's asleep! Or maybe he's dead and the car is his coffin!

Henry, Henry, she says. She shakes her head at him.

He doesn't like it when she does this. What? 

Henry, she says. I think he lives in there. 

•   •   •

Night starts to fall, and it begins to get cool. Henry regrets leaving his coat at home. Clarissa seems nice and warm in hers. 

After they get bored trying to blow rings with their frosty breath, Henry says, Okay, so let me see if I get it. You think he lives in a car? 

Didn't we already talk about this? Clarissa sighs.

I don't get it, though. I mean, why would you get into the trunk? Why wouldn't you just sleep inside like a normal person who lives in their car? And why would you live in a Chevy Corsica that only has three doors? Why wouldn't you pick, I don't know, like, a van or something? 

I think you're missing the point, Clarissa says. Have you ever seen a movie where someone had a hidden room? 

Like a secret one? A secret hidden room? 

Yes.

I think so. 

Okay, she says. So how do people usually hide secret rooms? 

I don't know, he says. Behind other things?

Exactly! They hide them behind other things. Or inside of other things. Or underneath other things. Like behind bookcases or paintings. 

So what you're saying --

What I'm saying, Henry, is that the car is just the front door.

So what's inside the car? he asks.

She's had some time to think about this as night fell.

It's not what's inside the car, she says. I mean, look at it. It's a car trunk. You can't really put much inside a car trunk. 

So what, then?