One Small Jump for Man, One Giant Leap into Madness for Mankind
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Just around the corner from the resplendent, hundred-story skyscraper, a filthy man in a tattered army uniform lays next to the sidewalk, atop a mattress of cardboard and rags. He has a dog with him, a mutt. The dog looks better fed and cared for than its homeless owner. As I pass by the pair, texting while I walk, the man winces and rolls over with a groan. I pause, looking back. You alright, guy? I ask. Need any help?

"Get it away from me!" the man snarls, pulling his mutt into a hug and sneering up at me. "Get what away?" "That thing!" He raises a shaky hand and points at my phone. "The radiation! It hurts my bones, it does!" "Oh, uh, right." I slip the phone into my pocket, then, feeling rather awkward, pull out my wallet and toss a ten into the empty Starbucks cup he has set out by his bed.

"That thing'll kill ya!" The man calls after me as I walk away. "It'll kill us all!" "You're welcome." I mumble, turning the corner. My phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out and read the latest text. "Almost here?" I respond. Look up, then watch as Bowie glances up from her phone and spots me approaching. "You're late, Scott!"

"No I'm not," I say, stepping up to join her and the rest of our little crew by the entrance. A few bags of equipment sitting at their feet. "We still have like, thirty seconds. You have both cameras?" Bowie asks. I reach around to pat my backpack. "Of course. It's all good, Bowie. Okay, good. We go live at 11:30, so that's in… 18 minutes. And remember guys, this is not a normal shoot. This is big.

They've all been big lately, I tell her. Not like this. I haven't told you all yet, but apparently, Syzygy is going to have an invitation to join the stream pop-up on every Xiphone on the planet, regardless of time zone. That's over three billion potential viewers. My mouth falls open. We all just stare at her. Wait, seriously? gushes RJ.

RJ and I have been working as cameramen for Bowie Byron for a few years now, and as her online following has continued to expand, she's been getting some truly massive numbers on her livestreams. But nothing like this. No one has. "It'll be fine," says Bowie, managing to smile even as she swallows nervously. "Everybody ready? Let's go."

She leads the way, the doors opening automatically at our approach, and I follow with the rest of the crew: RJ, Tracy, and Joaquim, all of us carrying equipment. The building's lobby is so big and glassy that it makes my head spin, but it's almost completely empty, even in the middle of a workday, and eerily silent, like… like the vestibule of some liminal dreamscape.

Our footsteps echo as we walk toward the center of the vast space, where a woman stands in waiting. She is tall and statuesque, with a toothy smile frozen on her perfectly symmetrical face. She could be a supermodel. The woman shakes Bowie's hand. Bowie is beautiful too, of course, but in a girl-next-door kind of way. "Good morning," says Bowie, craning her neck to look up at the taller woman. "You must be Artemis, right?"

"Certainly," says Artemis. "Welcome, Miss Byron, to Syzygy Quantonomics. You and your associates are right on time. Declan will be pleased. He awaits us in his penthouse, situated on the topmost level." "Oh, okay. I figured Mr. Savoy would want us to interview him in his office." Artemis' perfect face retains its smile, but a hardness comes into her eyes.

"Please refrain from addressing him as anything other than Declan. That is his preference." "Of course," says Bowie, with a diplomatic bow of the head. "But it will feel a little weird calling the richest person in history by his first name. I assure you it will not," declares Artemis, turning her grin on the rest of us. I smile sheepishly back. Beside me, RJ blushes. "I will now escort you all to the elevator. Follow me."

She leads us toward a curved wall of polished steel. Its surface acts as a mirror, bending and distorting our reflections as we approach. Then the wall splits and reveals a hidden doorway. An elegant room lays behind the doors, with a glittering chandelier, golden statues in the corners, antique mirrors along the walls, and many lavish couches and armchairs. We all walk inside and wait, rather confused, as the doors close.

"Oh wow, is this room the elevator?" asks Bowie. The elevator room is like something out of the palace at Versailles. Hell, it might actually be from the palace. Declan Savoy could certainly afford to do that. I feel my stomach drop as we ascend. Lowering myself onto a love seat, I glance up at Artemis, who remains standing and alert. "This is pretty sweet," I tell her. "So how long have you worked for Declan Savoy?"

She stares down at me, unblinking. "Yes." "Uh, cool," I say, trying not to catch RJ's eye. "If we look at each other right now, we'll both be at risk of cracking up. This whole thing is a little ridiculous." The sensation of motion ceases, and the doors slide open. "Well, that was quick," says Bowie, getting up from an armchair and following Artemis out of the lavish elevator. We emerge into the penthouse apartment.

It's certainly big, with an open floor plan and lots of floor-to-ceiling windows, but it's less grand than I expected. The place is sparsely furnished, sterile, white and blank. There's a coldness to it, despite the morning sunshine spilling in. Broken by the many windows into criss-crossed beams of rainbow, we're led to the east side of the apartment. There's a sliding glass door there, amongst the tall windows, then a wraparound deck.

The view of Manhattan below is breathtaking. Two chairs have been set on a white rug, angled toward each other. "Declan has requested the interview be conducted here," says Artemis. "Great," says Bowie, nodding. I step over to them. "Hey Bowie, the natural light in here is actually very nice. I don't even think we'll need the cops, but the glare from that window is gonna be tricky. The morning sun is right there, so maybe if we moved the chairs over here instead, then..."

Bowie clenches her teeth in a nervous smile. "He wants it done here. Just figure it out, Scott. Quickly." "Fine," I say with a sigh and begin to unpack the cameras from my bag as RJ sets up the tripods and Tracy checks the wireless mics. Joaquim has his makeup bag open and is pacing anxiously, chewing on a painted fingernail. We're all a little jumpy, and when footsteps sound from the right, we all start and look over.

And there he is, Declan Savoy, descending a staircase from a loft area above. He looks, well, how he always looks: hiking sandals, with socks, khaki pants, polo shirt, and a white cowboy hat that he's never photographed without. I guess humans are funny like that. You can be the most powerful person on the planet and still feel insecure about your hairline. No idea why the guy doesn't just get plugs or a hair system.

"Howdy folks, and welcome to my Tower of Terror," he calls out, hopping down from the bottom stair and approaching Bowie. "That's a joke. It's what my ex-wife called this place. I have the best view of the city up here, but that woman was deathly afraid of heights. Call of the Void and all that. Anxiety. Such a pathetic emotion." He shakes Bowie's hand, not bothering to greet or even acknowledge the rest of us.

"It's great to meet you, sir. And yeah, the view is spectacular," says Bowie. "Now then, the livestream is scheduled to begin in about 12 minutes. So if we can get things set up, Joaquim, do you want to-" Joaquim steps forward, makeup brush at the ready, but Declan waves him away. "No, no, none of that. Just make me look pretty in your camera." "Course," says Bowie, shooting me a look. I shrug.

Tracy comes up next, and Declan allows her to clip a tiny wireless mic under his shirt collar. "My followers are very excited about our chat today," Bowie says, as Tracy clips a mic on her as well. "Lots of chatter online, hmm," muses Declan, nodding slowly, an enigmatic smile on his thin lips. "Shall we sit?" She takes a seat, and Declan lowers himself into the other chair, crossing his legs.

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I attach my camera to the tripod and watch in the camera display as the autofocus locks onto the face of Declan Savoy. His face is strange up close, his grey eyes large and bulging, like a goldfish. He has a certain… quality. It reminds me of one of those tantric cult leaders they make true crime documentaries about.

RJ sets up the second camera, zooming in on Bowie, and I place bounce boards for each, though it's mostly needed for Declan, whose wide-brimmed hat is throwing half his face into shadow. As I walk back to my camera, Artemis approaches her employer, smiling even wider than before, her cheeks stretched to their breaking points. "Do you require any additional assistance at this time, Declan?"

No thank you, Artemis, says Declan. His gaze still locked onto Bowie, who was on her phone, syncing up the camera feeds and setting up the split-screen livestream. Artemis backs away, her head inclined in a subtle bow, and moves to stand behind me. I can sense her watching over my shoulder as I adjust the camera settings. I wish she would stand further back. It's making me nervous. How did the shots look? Bowie asks us.

Both RJ and I give her the thumbs up. The lighting does look great. And the levels? Tracy has on her headphones and nods. Audio's perfect. Awesome, says Bowie, closing her eyes to let Joaquin give her makeup a final touch up. This interview might finally get my mom off my back. She was so pissed when I dropped out of journalism school to do social media full time. Doesn't matter how successful I become. She still thinks I should have finished that darn degree. Hmm, errands.

"Indeed," says Declan, in a tone that would indicate he's just made some grand philosophical statement. "Well, if you were my daughter, I would feel immense pride at your success. And, of course, your beauty. Thanks." Behind my camera, I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I wonder if anyone's ever told the eccentric trillionaire that his attempts at charm just come across as creepy.

The next few minutes pass in a blur, and before I know it, we're going live in 10 seconds. "If anybody has to cough, belch, or fart, do it now," says Bowie, and Declan chuckles. "Okay, we're live in five, four, three,

And while RJ's camera, not to mention a billion plus viewers around the world, watch Bowie's friendly face smile down the lens, I stare into my camera's viewfinder at the protuberant eyes of the man who has invited us here, watching his reaction as Bowie begins. "What is up everybody? Welcome to the stream!"

"I am in lovely NYC this morning for what I'm sure will be a very stimulating conversation with a very interesting guest. Not only that, I've been told he has an intriguing bit of news he'll be dropping today. What could it be? Your guess is as good as mine. So, let's get to it." She shifts her gaze from the camera to the man across from her. "And here he is. The legendary Declan Savoy himself. First off, Declan, thank you for hosting.

We're sitting in your lovely apartment atop your company headquarters. No need to thank me, Bowie, he says. I thoroughly dislike traveling. Doing the interview here is convenient, and there isn't anyone with whom I'd rather discuss today's revelation than you. Oh, really? Well, I'm flattered, though a bit surprised. You have your own media network, and no doubt connections with every major news agency in the world. Why me? Declan shakes his head.

That old model of the media is on life support. It's time to let it die. And I might be the emperor of tech, but you, Bowie Byron, are the queen of social media. Your livestreams make the Super Bowl look like community theater. And when you do these little sit-downs with celebrities and thought leaders, the way you reach across disciplines and connect with people, it's extraordinary.

"I didn't realize you were a fan, and thank you. I certainly try my best." She leans forward, a twinkle in her eye. "Last week, I talked makeup tips with a pop star one day, and black holes with Neil deGrasse Tyson the next. So yeah, I do love variety." "Exactly! And what's more, you are likeable. I have many extraordinary qualities, but I'm told likeability is not one of them." He pouts, rather theatrically.

"Oh, I don't know about that," says Bowie, sitting back. "To many people, Declan Savoy is a hero, and to many others, a villain." Bowie tilts her head. "Did you not think becoming the world's first trillionaire might lead to a divisive response in the public?" He shrugs. "It helps to know that, love me or hate me, most everyone watching us now are doing so on one of my devices."

He turns, grinning slyly down my camera lens. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end. And your little announcement today, is that about a new piece of Syzygy tech? The Xiphone Omega, perhaps? You're running out of Greek letters, you know. You'll need a new naming system. Declan blinks, his smile wavering, and turns back to her. About that, I may have lied to you, Bowie. I'm sorry. Bowie squints at him.

"So you don't have an announcement?" "Oh, I do. But it isn't little. In fact, it's what everything has been leading to." "Everything? In your career?" He shakes his head. "No, well, yes. But it's more than that. Much more." There's a gleam in his eyes. A sort of simmering fervor. It makes me nervous. "Mmm, mysterious." Bowie adjusts herself on the chair.

He reaches up to adjust his hat.

Careful there, Bowie. Rexburg, Idaho is a proper city, albeit a small one. But, I suppose, viewed from the outside, my life would seem atypical. But for me, each step along the way was the logical next move toward my goals. I have always dedicated my time to things I believe are important. Have I gotten wealthy in the process? Yes. But it was never about the money. I don't care about luxuries or opulence. I never have.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see RJ shake with silent laughter, no doubt picturing his private elevator we rode up here on. "For me," Declan continues, "the driving purpose of my life and career was always about acquiring, or building, the tools to redirect the path of humankind, to shape our collective future. Is that right?" Bowie crosses her arms. "And tell me, Declan,

Who was it exactly that elected you as the person to shape our collective future? His eyes seemed to bulge a little extra at that question.

History, he answers after a slight pause, consists mostly of long stretches of stagnation and anarchy punctuated by the occasional genius such as myself who stands up and puts forth an idea so revolutionary that humankind cannot help but be shoved forward by its brilliance. Shoved forward? Interesting choice of words. Are you inferring that humanity only progresses by force?

"I never forced anyone to buy one of my products." Bowie's face breaks into a grin, puncturing the rising tension in the room. She uncrosses her arms and wags a finger at him. "Aha, so that's the sort of thing you mean by shaping the future of humankind. Selling a newer, slightly better smartphone." Declan exhales, slouching forward, and I adjust the camera with a slight tilt.

Then, hardly believing what I'm seeing, I watch as he raises a hand and removes the cowboy hat from his head. Behind me, Artemis releases a tiny gasp. Bowie manages to retain composure, but I know her well enough to sense the surprise on her face. Declan sets the hat on his lap, drumming the fingers of his left hand on its rim as he lifts his right hand to wipe sweat from his high forehead, then moves his fingers back through his thinning hair.

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I'm not sure what the big deal is. He looks fine. Just like a million other balding middle-aged white dudes.

"Do you know, Bowie, what the word Syzygy actually means?" asks Declan, his voice now low, his eyes downcast. Bowie leans forward, lowering her tone to match. "It comes from astronomy, right? It has to do with the alignment of celestial bodies." "Indeed, and in more general usage, it refers to two objects or forces, apparently in opposition, coming into alignment with each other."

No! He whines, sighing and shaking his head. My vision is so much more than all that!

"I thought... I thought you would have seen that in me, would have understood it. You're always so curious and open-minded in your livestreams. It's... cute." Bowie ignores the final comment. "I am trying to understand, Declan, but you seem to be dancing around what it is you actually want to say." He uncrosses his legs and grips the cowboy hat tightly on his lap. "Do you... do you know about my father?" Bowie shakes her head.

He was an elder in our church. LDS revered him. Everyone did. But then he went through a... change. He began to believe that he was God's prophet on Earth. He claimed to... to see things, feel things, experience things that... that the rest of us couldn't. And later, well, the doctors diagnosed him as suffering from a delusional disorder. The whole ordeal was... very taxing.

and it revealed to me a different truth. What truth was that? He stares at Bowie with his large, wet eyes. We do not have a monopoly, he whispers, on the concept of reality. His face twitches and his voice begins to rise. None of us know. In fact, we don't know shit. Bowie doesn't react to his outburst. She sits very still, watching him.

"That's interesting," she finally says. "Coming from you, Declan. You're the self-proclaimed Emperor of Tech, and you're here speaking with me, the, how do you put it, queen of social media. Surely we know something. We're a big deal, right, you and I?"

There's a playful gleam in her eyes now, but his eyes go hard, and a fresh bead of sweat breaks out on his forehead, twinkling in the camera feed. "Set the fruit fly to the earthworm." Lifting up his hat, he shoves it back onto his head,

Science can't know anything, nor can religion. That's all just the best guesses of a mammalian brain. And the brain is nothing more than a vehicle for an unthinking, uncaring, accidentally arisen set of genes.

We evolved to sense and to comprehend only that which might enable the survival and dispersion of our DNA. That's it. That's all we're good for. And every so-called "advancement" we've ever achieved? They're all just tricks our genes stumbled upon to spread themselves more efficiently. They add up to nothing. All of this!" He holds out his hands to either side, indicating his apartment, the windows, the city below them. "It's nothing.

"Wow," says Bowie, her eyebrows raised. "Well, you were quite the pessimist today, aren't you, Declan?" "Today? No. I used to, but not anymore." The smile returns to his lips. "You see, I figured it out." "Figured what out?" "How to find answers! Real answers! Objective answers!"

That's why you're here, my exquisite Queen Bowie. Because later today, actually... He pulls his iPhone from his pocket and checks the screen. In just 13 minutes, at noon, my new creation will go online, and you and I will bear witness, in real time, to the first true enlightenment of the human race. I glance up from the camera and catch RJ's eye. He shrugs. He's as dumbfounded as I am.

Declan is starting to sound more like some street corner preacher than a tech bro announcing a product. Bowie adjusts herself in the chair and clears her throat. You're certainly building up a lot of intrigue about this. Whatever it is you're revealing today, I'm revealing the universe, Bowie, in its true form, whatever that may be.

Think of it like the visible spectrum, you know. Of course, the colors the human eye can perceive are but a tiny fragment of the full electromagnetic spectrum. But what else awaits discovery beyond the natural borders of our perception? There could be infinite layers to reality that we have never conjured in our wildest dreams. Or, contrarily, there may be a single, simple equation that explains all of existence. We don't know.

In fact, we don't know what we don't know, but we will. That is what I will unveil today. And how exactly are you going to do that? His smile widens as do his eyes. He holds up his phone.

With these, of course! Or rather, with one very tiny component I have developed. The idea came to me at the start of Syzygy Quantonomics. I wanted to build cybernetic implants to bridge mind and machine. But I soon learned that it's a fool's errand. The brain performs much more complicated, nuanced, and impressive computations than any binary code can imitate.

The trick, I decided, would be to build an entirely new type of computer. One that's able to replicate the workings of the brain, and then to design a transmitter capable of sending out information. Not as UHF or ISM, but frequencies that sync with the beta rhythms of brain waves themselves. In other words, it's a way to transmit thoughts, sensations, and experiences directly into the mind.

And now, I am happy to announce, I can do just that! Bowie considers this, her brow furrowed. So you've made, like, Bluetooth for the brain? Is that what you're saying? Like maybe future Xiphones might be able to, I don't know, beam this livestream directly into people's brains? Is that it? We could use it for that, sure. But that wouldn't change anything. It would just be another gimmick. Another insignificant baby step, more of the same.

Well, it seems pretty impressive to me, and no doubt it would drive up sales. Fuck sales! Behind me, Artemis makes another involuntary sound of shock. Fuck the phones! Fuck the company! I already told you, that's all meaningless now. I don't care about any of it. Bowie puffs up her cheeks and exhales. You do realize, Declan, that your little statement just now probably caused a sizable blip in your stock price. Your net worth probably just dropped a few billion.

"Are you even listening?" He snaps. "It doesn't matter! Everything will change in nine minutes!" "How?" "You still haven't actually explained anything. You've said a lot about concepts of reality and some new transmitter tech, but what is actually going to happen in nine minutes?"

"I am telling you, Bowie. The transmitter. It works perfectly. It has for years. And it's been secretly included in every Syzygy product made in the last decade. And now that the rest is ready, I will activate the transmitters all at once. I will show humanity the true nature of this universe." "What true nature? I have no idea!" he cries out, breaking into giddy laughter. "How could I? I haven't seen the truth yet!"

My machine knows. My latest creation. My final creation. The room around us goes suddenly dim. A cloud must be passing over the sun. The sky outside shifts from white and brilliant blue to muted gray. Bowie glances briefly out the windows before turning back to Declan. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. So, there's a new machine. Tell us the details. What is it? How does it work?

He wriggles in his seat like an excited child. "It's a computer, but far more advanced than anything else ever built." "Why?" "My machine is, to today's best quantum computers, what they are to an abacus. And I call it the Oracle." "Oracle? As in divine? Or telling the future?" "Both." "And what makes it so special?"

He laughs again.

I have not yet peeked into its findings, but the data is clear. My oracle has achieved objective, universal comprehension. It has the answers to all the biggest questions in science and philosophy, and the answers to questions we would never think to ask. And, as soon as the transmitters are activated, at 12 o'clock, all of that knowledge shall be beamed directly into our brains.

Anyone within a three foot radius of a Syzygy product shall instantly gain the power of the Oracle's sight.

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Are you being serious about this? Because it sounds like you're talking about unleashing an untested technology on billions of unsuspecting people. I'm giving people the truth, that's all. If there is a god, he shall be revealed today. If we live in a simulation, its code shall be laid bare before us. The past, present, future, all of it. For everyone. Whether or not they want to see this supposed truth,

Bowie shakes her head. "You... can't do this, Declan. It's totally immoral, and it's dangerous." His smile fades. He looks hurt, angry, and sits up straighter in his chair. "My sperm doesn't work." This is such an unexpected turn in the conversation that I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Bowie's eyebrows shoot up. "Beg your pardon?" "I am infertile," he says.

He holds up the phone.

It's a miracle, and it's too important to leave the choice up to the naive masses. Can't you see that? Do you understand?" He smiles at her expectantly. I look at Bowie, the expression on her face. "I've never seen it before. It's a hard look, maybe. Hatred mingled with pity?" "I think," she says, measuring each word. "This is all about your personal hubris, Mr. Savoy."

and that the real miracle here is that a human ego can be so immensely inflated, yet somehow so incredibly fragile. His eyes flare. You disappoint me, Bowie. I thought you would understand. That to learn to fly, baby birds must sometimes be thrown out of the nest. It doesn't matter how many pretty metaphors you use. You're playing out your mad experiment on the unsuspecting public.

He points at the cameras. "They're watching right now! I'm telling them! I'm telling you, Bowie! I thought you'd be impressed! I was really excited to share this with you!" A muscle in Bowie's cheek twitches, but when she speaks next, her tone is calming and direct. "I have to ask, Mr. Savoy. Did you set this all up, at least in part, to flirt with me?" Under the brim of his hat, he blushes.

What? No, no, no. No! I... This plan is decades in the making, Bowie. Obviously. But this chat? I mean, this is a big day, right? The biggest day. The end of the world as we know it. And the start of a new era. So, understandably, I did want to spend it with someone who... I've grown very fond of watching. Someone special.

He smiles at her with false shyness, then leans forward in his seat. Bowie leans backward. Her gaze flickers over to me. I stare back at her, not sure what to do. "Well, I'm flattered, Declan," she says carefully. "But if you value my opinion, I think you should pause today's countdown, okay? Wait until other scientists have tested the technology and-" "What? No!" he says, his face now blotchy and embarrassed.

That's the main event! It's the big reveal! I can't just stop the countdown! But we don't know if it's safe. It doesn't matter if it's safe! It's true! It's truth, Bowie! Bowie swallows hard, blinking. I can see the wheels spinning in her head as she calculates how best to handle this bizarre scenario. And the unhinged, lovesick man sitting across from her. Declan, can I ask...

"How old was your father when he developed his delusional disorder?" Declan shrugs. "Why does that matter? Was he in his mid-forties perhaps? Because some of those conditions are, that is, they can be inherited so." Declan jumps to his feet. Bowie flinches. I start to lunge toward her automatically, but she holds up a hand, and I'm reminded that I'm here to do a job.

I clenched my jaws in irritation and turned back to the camera, adjusting the shot to him as he stands. His hands balled into fists at his side, breathing heavily. "You think I'm crazy, Bowie?" I didn't say that. "I'm a genius!" "Of course, everyone knows that." "The things I've built, they work! The Oracle works! It can show the truth! We must know, once and for all! We must know what it all means!"

I see Artemis march forward into the shot. She's still smiling, but maniacally, her teeth gleaming, tears on her cheeks and terror in her eyes. "Sir," she says weakly, "might it not be prudent to take a break?" Declan looks over at her, seeming confused to see other people in the room. "I'm not crazy," he mumbles. "We're not saying you are," says Bowie, getting slowly to her feet.

If you really have developed the technology to put visions into people's heads, I don't think you should be testing it on the whole world at once. Do you understand that? That's how I feel. She taps at her chest. I am of mind to agree, sir, says Artemis. He looks between the two women, his upper lip quivering. This isn't how this was supposed to go. This is a good day, an exciting day. I...

"Oh wait! Here!" He pulls out his phone again and begins to do something on the screen. "I'll show you! I'll show everyone that it's safe! I'll turn on the transmission just for me, see? Then you'll both see that it's safe! Watch!"

"Sir," Artemis repeats, reaching out a shaky hand. But he backs away from her, knocking over his chair as he stumbles toward the windows. We all stand and watch as Declan Savoy, his face now pale and tear-streaked under his cowboy hat, jabs at the screen of his phone with one finger. "Done!" He is smiling. We wait, holding our collective breath. Declan's smile, it fades. His expression goes blank. I zoom in.

The gleam is gone from his eyes. Bowie cocks an eyebrow. Well? Did it work? What did you... learn? Declan's arms drop to his sides, and the phone falls and bounces on the carpet. He looks around the room, staring at something. Then, something else. Only, there's nothing there. Nothing but us. And he doesn't seem to notice us at all. Oh. He says flatly. So that's it.

And he turns, grabs the handle of the sliding glass door, and pulls it open. "Wait, I, um…" says Bowie, taking one step forward as Declan walks out onto the balcony, grabs the railing in both hands, and swinging his legs over it, he jumps. Artemis screams. Bowie gasps and marches through the open door. I start to run after her, bumping into my tripod, and see RJ rushing forward as well. Only he has detached his camera and is still filming.

We hurry onto the balcony and gather with Bowie at the railing. I peer over, just in time to see, far below, the flailing body of the richest human in history land on the sidewalk 100 stories below. A dark dot on a red smudge. "Oh my god," says Bowie, a hand to her mouth. "I got that," says RJ. "I totally got that!"

"Dude, stop filming!" I say. "No!" Bowie shouts, spinning to us. "N-no! We can't stop filming! Because... because people need to know! If every scifone on the planet's gonna start transmitting in... oh god, in five minutes! People have to be warned!" "You can't have done that just because of the phone," says RJ. "That guy was totally mentally unstable! We don't know what happened!" counters Bowie. Then she gasps and points inside.

We turn. Tracy and Joaquin have wisely backed further into the apartment, but Artemis is kneeling on the carpet, lifting up the phone her employer dropped. "Don't touch it!" Bowie shouts, but it's too late. We watch as the panic and grief on Artemis' beautiful face melts away, replaced by a look of blankness and resolve. Rising, the phone still clenched in her pale hand, she stands and marches toward the balcony.

"Get the door!" Bowie shouts, and her and I both rush to close it. But Artemis doesn't stop. She runs into the door, her head smashing against the glass. It cracks. Artemis falls backward, stands again, and smashes into it a second time, her bloody scalp bashing a small hole.

She begins to grip with her fingertips at the hole, breaks off a jagged blade of glass, and stabs it into her right eye. "Oh my god!" I scream, and we all watch through the distorted view of the cracked, smeared glass as Artemis stabs her left eye next, then slashes at her own throat.

We see the blood, red against her pallid chest, and the statuesque woman crumples to the carpet. "Fuck these fucking phones, man!" says RJ, lowering the camera in one hand and pulling out his Xiphone with the other. He hurls it over the balcony. "We have to get out of this building," says Bowie, taking a deep breath. "There's gotta be millions of the transmitter chips in here. Come on!" She slides open the door.

"Watch out for the phone!" I yell, but Bowie is way ahead of me. She instructs Tracy and Joaquin to grab the far corner of the rug and drag it to one side, pulling the body of Artemis and Declan's phone beside it, away from us. Rushing inside, we all run through the bright, echoey apartment RJ is still filming. "Are we still streaming?" I ask. Bowie checks her phone as she runs. "Shit! No! Syzygy must have cut the feed!"

"Fuck!" grunts RJ, tossing aside the camera. "Well, maybe they also stopped the countdown for the worldwide transmission," says Tracy. "You wanna take that chance?" asks Bowie as we come up to the elevator. "And I bet that asshole made it impossible to turn off. That's just the sort of thing he'd do." The mirrored steel wall parts upon our approach, and we race into the elevator room.

"Shit! Phones!" I call out, pulling out my phone and tossing it back into the apartment. Tracy and Joaquin do the same, but Bowie still has hers and is typing furiously. The doors close. The elevator starts its descent. "What are you doing?" I ask Bowie. "Telling all my followers to get as far away from any Xiphone or Syzygy product as they can ASAP. You think they'll listen?"

"No idea, but we had a shit ton of viewers. A new record probably. But I don't know how many of them will really believe what they saw. I can hardly believe it. He just jumped." Joaquim is shaking, chewing on both thumbnails at once. "How much time is left?" "Two minutes," says Bowie, still typing. "What do you guys think he, you know, saw?" asks RJ. "What does the Oracle show people?" I shake my head. "Nothing good."

"But maybe it was good," offers Tracy. "Maybe he saw heaven and, and seeing proof of it, he wanted to..." "He wanted to jump off the balcony and fall a hundred floors?" I say. "You think seeing heaven made that Artemis woman gouge out her own eyes?" I shake my head. "I bet it was nothing," says RJ, starting to cry. "I've never seen him cry before." "I bet it showed him that the universe is cold and dark and meaningless."

Well, as a nihilist myself, I tell him, patting his arm. Somehow, I still find a reason to get out of bed every day, so I doubt that's the answer either. What confuses me is, Declan didn't look... afraid, did he? But he still just... And it looked like he saw... something else. Something in the apartment.

"It doesn't matter what the Oracle shows people," says Bowie. "It doesn't even matter if it's real or not. It could be a flaw in the system or, I don't know, the computer itself wanting to kill people. All that matters is what happens next and if we can get away in time." The doors peel open. We run through the vast, empty lobby and right out the front doors.

The city is alive outside. Everywhere we look, people old and young, sitting, standing, walking, jogging. Their heads are bowed, their eyes glued to the screens in their hands. Where the hell do we go? I ask Bowie, who has finally finished typing and chucks her phone into a trash can. Try and stay away from people, I guess, and get out of the city. Should we not, you know, tell them? Asks Tracy, waving at the crowds around us.

It's too late, says RJ. They're fucked. We're all fucked. I feel a chill run up my back and turn in place, looking for a clock. What time is it? I ask, to no one in particular. Then I repeat it, louder this time, to a woman passing by. Hey, what time is it? She glances up at me, then looks back at her phone. It's 11.59. Oh, actually, it just turned 12...

The muscles in her face go limp. Her eyes snap up and to the left, staring at an empty spot over the street. I jerk backward, grabbing Bowie by the elbow, pulling her away from the woman. But before the woman can act to harm herself, another body falls on top of her, and they smash together onto the sidewalk. A fine spray of blood splashes over us, like a warm mist.

I stumble backward, dizzy and disoriented. It's chaos, but… The strange thing is, most people aren't screaming. It's like the whole city has gone quiet, standing still as mannequins, looking around them at a scene I cannot see. Then cars start to accelerate, swerve, and smash themselves together or into walls.

The slack-jawed citizens begin to move in a herd and throw themselves in front of cars. More bodies fall around us, jumping out of, or through, windows from buildings on every side. "Come on!" Bowie tugs on my sleeve, and I let her guide me back toward the entrance of Syzygy Quantonomics, where the crowd is thinner. I don't know where the others in the crew have gone, but… but I think I can hear RJ screaming.

Now, we turn and run down the sidewalk, moving to miss the bodies of two more jumpers, and a man sitting on the curb, using a brick to cave in his own skull. As we reach an intersection, another woman comes careening around the corner. Her face is blank, and in her hand, she holds a Xiphone in a Hello Kitty case. She runs straight into Bowie who, as her body goes rigid, manages to reach behind her.

With her last moment of sanity, Bowie shoves me, hard, in the chest. I fall backward, watching as the other woman rushes past us, off to find some way, any way, to stop existing.

I see Bowie flinch into action too, and I jump to my feet and lunge, throwing my arms around her and tackling her to the ground. "No Bowie, stop!" I scream as her rigid limbs fight back, spasming to get free. I spin her around and stare into her widened eyes. "Just stop!" But she's so strong.

It's as if her body will happily shatter every bone if it means breaking free from my grasp. I try to hold her down, I really do, but I can't manage much longer. Panting, I look into her blank face and I ask, "What did you see?" She stares up, not at me, but through me. "What did you see?" A tear falls from one of Bowie's unblinking eyes. "I know why the stars are screaming."

What? I stammer. What does that mean? She shoves me off of her, rises to her feet, and runs into the street. I watch as a trash truck barreling through the crowd reaches Bowie, smashes her to the ground, and drives over her. Another body hits the pavement next to me, and I flinch. Bruised, battered, dripping with blood of others, I scramble across the sidewalk to an empty stretch of trash-strewn gravel and come to a stop beside a Starbucks cup with a $10 bill inside it.

The homeless man by the road looks at me, then sits up on his cardboard bed, scratching at his unshaven cheek. He glances around at the chaos in the streets, his expression a little curious, a little amused, as if the destruction all around us is some mildly entertaining TV show. Then he pulls out a bone-shaped dog biscuit, cracks it in two, and hands one half to his dog while he begins to chew the other. Looking over at me, he shrugs. "Told you so!"

I collapse forward onto my stomach, my cheek against the concrete, watching in my sideways vision as the human race opens its eyes and is illuminated.

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