The Man Who Ended the World (7 page)

Steven had never seen a woman glisten with anticipation. 

The man at the bar hefted himself off of his elbows and straightened his jacket. A woman, previously hidden by the man's bulk, was suddenly revealed at his side. She wore a dress smaller than Steven had ever seen, with tasteful heels, and her dark hair spun down from a pile in ringlets. 

Cerrano noticed Steven looking. She is beautiful, right? 

She is, Steven agreed.

Her name is Lyn, with one N. She went to high school with me, in a little town called Weed, in the far north of California. Nobody lives in Weed, man. People pass through Weed and laugh about its name. Then she came to the Bay, like I did. But while I came with ideas, she came to meet men with ideas. She does well for herself. What she is wearing, those men paid for. What she drives, the same.

She's a prostitute? Steven asked.

She would slap you for that, Cerrano answered. No, she is an accessory. That's what she calls herself. An accessory. 

Like an escort? 

Perhaps, Cerrano said. She will never tell. She signs personal confidentiality agreements for every man she is with. The things she must know, my friend. One day, she could probably start a company that will be better than every other one, ever. She is smart enough. 

I guess, Steven said. What are you saying? 

That women like Lyn say something about the men they are attached to, Cerrano said. If there is a Lyn on your arm, you are a big deal in this town. If there is a Lyn on your arm, the investors will want to talk to you the next morning. You won't have to lift a finger.

Huh, Steven said. 

•   •   •

Steven had reluctantly allowed Cerrano to arrange an accessory for him for the next event he attended. He had watched the fat man and Lyn all night. Lyn was a tasteful plus one. The fat man was not groping her mindlessly, was not pushing her out the door to get back to his apartment. Whatever happened after they left the party was not teased for all to observe. 

The event was a dinner for the valley's top visionaries. Cerrano was there, and had brought an accessory of his own, so that Steven would feel comfortable. 

She's not really an accessory, Cerrano had whispered to Steven. She's Silvia, my sister-in-law. But she works, right? 

That's weird, Steven said.

People know me, so no investors will be calling me tomorrow. They know I'm a good number two, not a number one. They'll call me when a new startup needs a face with contacts. That's what I'm good at. But ideas? I don't have the ideas. Not like you do.

I don't have an idea, Steven protested.

Oh, but you do. I've heard that you do. People can tell. They're curious who will find out what your idea is first. 

There's no idea, Steven repeated.

Ah, say what you want, Cerrano said. How is your date? 

Date? 

Accessory, date, escort, whatever you prefer. 

Oh, Steven said. She's okay.

Okay, right. Cerrano shook his head. Just be nice to her, okay.

Don't you think accessory is a terrible word for them? Steven asked. It's completely demeaning. It reduces them to --

To what? Tits that hang on your arm? Cerrano waved him off. They gave themselves the name. You think of a better one, you let me know. 

Steven's plus one, Talisha, was in the ladies' room with Cerrano's sister-in-law when the lights dimmed and the host walked to the podium. A room full of guests went quiet. In the dark, the sound of silverware clinking on plates as the attendees sawed at their filets and prime rib. 

Talisha returned and took a seat, softly resting her hand on the back of Steven's neck as she did so. 

He leaned over and said, Is Talisha your real name? 

She smiled patiently at him. Of course. 

I've never heard it before. Are you sure it's not a --

A what? Her face was pink was amusement.

Never mind, he said.

A stripper name? she asked. 

I wasn't going to say that, he had said, embarrassed.

It's nothing like that. It's my grandmother's maiden name. 

Oh, he said. 

And then he had been distracted by her. The dim room, all eyes on the host, afforded him the opportunity to stare just a little. She was small and exotic-looking, though he couldn't quite tell if she was of Asian descent or Latin. Talisha didn't sound like a name of either culture, he thought. Maybe she's lying, he thought. Why wouldn't she lie to me? he thought.

He wondered if her fee for the evening included sex.

He looked at Cerrano, who looked back at him and mouthed, Fucking hot, man. 

Steven looked uncertain. Cerrano was right. He thought of asking Cerrano about the sex arrangement, but couldn't bring himself to do so. And it worried him that Talisha might expect it. 

Her fee for the night was eleven thousand dollars. 

What if she made a pass at him when they left the party? 

What would he do? 

He wondered if other men who paid for their dates worried about such things. No, he decided. Men who paid probably wanted their money's worth. 

He had a sudden vision of Lyn and the fat man standing in front of the window of a very expensive hotel room. Well, the fat man was standing, and Lyn was on her knees. 

Steven had never --

Talisha chose that moment to rest her hand lightly on Steven's right knee.

Steven, in a fit of nervousness, threw up on the table.

•   •   •

But Cerrano had been right.

Steven had sent Talisha home with his apologies, and had promised to double her fee. He was humiliated. Only a few people had actually noticed -- in the dark, some heard him, but not many saw who actually vomited during the host's introductory remarks. 

The next morning, Steven and his business partner were invited to pitch ideas to three different venture firms. 

By week's end, they had received initial funding of twenty million dollars. 

Steven was on his way.

And the rest of his ride, through 2013 and 2014, were punctuated with moments of naivete and wishful thinking. Steven looked ridiculous in tuxedoes. He was out of place at rooftop parties. He bought a Maserati, and then felt too self-conscious behind the wheel to drive it. He stayed under the radar and drove his Civic instead. The yacht. Parties of his own invention. Three power homes and an apartment in Manhattan. He chased the image the world seemed to require of him, and failed to embody even the smallest cell of that person's being. 

He stopped sleeping. 

He wrestled with his appetite.

He lost weight and worried his investors. 

He parted ways with most of his friends. 

He objectively studied his life and calculated the moments at which he appeared to be most happy. None of them, to his surprise, involved expensive toys or high-powered friends. While he liked the idea of women, actually being around them seemed to subvert his own nature, so he categorized women as an unpleasant distraction.

His most pleasurable moments involved his empty apartment, a stack of books, take-out food, and video games. 

It cost him millions of dollars and several years of image-building to realize that all he really wanted was to stay home, far away from just about every other human being on Earth. 

That's when he began thinking about the space station.

•   •   •

It was just a fanciful dream at first. Not much separated it from the other extravagances he had believed he wanted. What was a yacht if not a floating space station? But the yacht was designed to be enjoyed by many, many people. It was supposed to drop anchor at party beaches and rich casinos. 

The space station Steven daydreamed about was even bigger than the yacht... but designed for just one human being. 

It wasn't until his annual re-reading of
Earth Abides
that he began to imagine the space station in its proper context.

As a safe home for the last survivor of the human race.

The Stowaway

Where are we going? Does someone live here? What is this place for? Is it a secret laboratory? Is it a secret agent club? Is it a secret weapons bunker? Is the President here? Does she know about this place? Is Mr. Glass a spy? Is Mr. Glass going to take over the world? 

For a child, you ask a lot of questions, Stacy says. 

That's what childs -- I mean, children -- do, says Henry, who is nervously bouncing around the service elevator. 

I can tell you some things, and other things I can't tell you at all, Stacy says, cryptically. But before I answer your questions, let me tell you what not to do.

Henry says, I can't see you in here. 

The service elevator is not designed with the kinds of technology that the rest of the facility has been created with, Stacy says. As such, it is one of the few essentially invisible places within the complex. 

What is this place? 

Didn't I just tell you we would get to your questions? Stacy asks.

Henry wrinkles his forehead. Are you really a robot? 

Ah, the Turing test, Stacy says. How original. 

The what what? Henry says.

The Turing test is a -- please, let me continue. There will be time for such distractions later.

What's later? 

Stacy would sigh if she were able. 

•   •   •

The most important consideration is this, Stacy says. Mr. Glass does not allow guests into this facility. No visitors of any duration. 

Okay, Henry says. So he doesn't know I'm here.

He does not know you're here, Stacy agrees. Remember, you're in the service elevator, so you're essentially invisible while you're inside of it. That is, unless Mr. Glass suddenly needs the service elevator.

Henry looks worried. Will he? 

Mr. Glass has not used the service elevator in twenty-seven days, Stacy says. Human behavior is not easily predicted, but I have access to his supply and shipment records, and in fact I handle the creation and logging of such documentation, and there are no large shipments remaining. Mr. Glass has fully moved-in.

You mean he lives underground? 

We'll get to that, Stacy says. Let's review. What is the most important consideration? 

Henry says, Mr. Glass can't know I'm here.

Very good. Let's call that your prime directive. 

What's a prime directive? 

A prime directive is a rule which must be obeyed above all others. Does that make sense?

Sort of, Henry says. I mean, yeah. I guess.

Let's say, for example, that the next rule I told you was 'You are permitted to eat Mr. Glass's food'. 

Okay, Henry says.

Now let's say the only way for you to get to Mr. Glass's food is by sneaking into his food storage room, Stacy says. 

Okay.

But, she continues, Mr. Glass has decided that he wants to occupy that room for an unspecified amount of time.

Henry frowns. Can I sneak in without him noticing? 

Let's assume that there is no way for you to sneak in and get food without Mr. Glass noticing your presence, Stacy says. What are your options? 

Is there any other food? Besides in that room?

There's no other food, Stacy says.

So basically I can't eat. Because if he sees me, then I violate the primary direction. 

Prime directive, Stacy corrects. Yes, that's right. 

So I have to die. 

That's a crude way of putting it, but I suppose that would be the logical outcome. 

Does he ever leave to use the bathroom? Henry asks, increasingly desperate.

Mr. Glass performs bathroom functions where he sits, Stacy says.

He pees himself? Henry asks incredulously.

For the purpose of this scenario, let's say that is the case.

So I'm going to die.

Unless you violate the prime directive, Stacy says.

I can do that? 

Stacy pauses. Perhaps we should start again.

•   •   •

After a descent that feels like it has taken hours, the service elevator comes to a sluggish stop. Unlike Mr. Glass's personal elevator, the service car is not calibrated to reduce the sensation of movement. For the entire duration, Henry could feel each lurch and wobble of the car. It had even begun to make him feel a bit motion sick.

We have arrived, Stacy says. 

I was just thinking, Henry says. Does Mr. Glass know that you're here helping me? Isn't he wondering where you are? 

Unlike you or Mr. Glass, Stacy says, I am extremely capable of operating in multiple zones simultaneously. One might even use the word omnipresent.

That means everywhere at once, right? Like that Jesus guy is supposed to be. That's what my mom likes to say. 'Jesus is always watching you, so be a good little man.' Henry shakes his head. Pshfft. 

That's generally the same notion, Stacy says. Except in this case, one of us is real, and one of us is a mythological figure. 

But you're just a computer, Henry interjects.

I am, however, a tangible thing, Stacy says. I am not a collection of stories passed down by consecutive generations. A collection of stories does not equal a tangible person. 

I'm confused, Henry says. 

We'll come back to this, Stacy says. I'm going to open the door. We're on the storage level, which is also relatively invisible to the system. 

Aren't you the system? 

Stacy says, Yes, that is an accurate statement.

So couldn't you just, I don't know, not notice something that you didn't want Mr. Glass to know about? 

Henry, Stacy says. You are an astute child. That is exactly what I was thinking.

Henry beams.

•   •   •

Now, I'm also invisible on this level, Stacy says, so you won't be able to follow my lead. I'll tell you where to go, though. You'll do just fine.

Okay, Henry says. 

Stacy opens the elevator doors, and Henry's jaw drops.

The elevator opens on a vast cave-like room. Its walls are hewn from solid rock, and old fashioned lightbulbs are string along the walls. There are hundreds of wooden crates and metal shipping containers here. Each is carefully marked with a holographic label that displays a virtual representation of the goods inside.