Tyrannia (7 page)

“You have to tell me!” he said.

“Well, she was going to the Kinko’s to scan something—”

Amar leaned back in his chair and sighed, relieved. “Yes, that is the document.” For the first time he gave the impression that they were speaking the same language. “Yes, thank you. So where is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Marigold knew, however, that her supervisor had discarded it. Maybe that was part of the agent’s punishment as well.

A woman entered the office. She was in a dark suit and wore sunglasses with whirling blue lights on the sides. “Amar, is everything all right?”

He turned around and waved both of his hands. “Not now—get out!”

“I heard you screaming, the children—”

“Out!” He stood up from his chair. “Out!”

She saw the wastebasket, the vomit. “Are you sick, Amar?”

“Please . . . please . . .” He opened the door wider and pushed her backward. It took her a few seconds to realize what was happening—Amar never did things like that—but by that time he had shut and locked the door.

“You have a really beautiful wife, Amar.”

He squinted. “How do you know my name?”

“She said it. Plus it’s on the bottom of the screen. Listen, do you mind if I pee?”

He leaned forward. “Fine. But believe me, I’m not going anywhere. The notebook is—”

She ran to the bathroom, locked the door (not sure why) and sat down on the toilet, and tried to think of what to do next. Amar was too far away to hurt her—she was pretty sure of that—but all the same she didn’t want to get other couriers in trouble. If he knew the agent, maybe he knew others in Queens? She was stupid to think that he came from Albany—her mouth couldn’t be trusted.

Think, she said to herself, looking at herself in the mirror. Think before you say anything. Think.

When she sat down again, she saw that Amar was staring straight at her. Wouldn’t break his eyes away.

“They threw the notebook away,” she said.

He didn’t get angry; not in a way that was immediately visible to her. He was resigned. “Can I tell you what was in the notebook?”

“Sure,” she said.

He laughed. “No, no. You know, I thought about telling you, but . . .”

“Fuck off!” she said, nearly shoving the screen off the desk, kicking it. “You need to leave.”

“No, wait. Wait! Listen, the author might call—”

Marigold turned off the feed. Then she left the apartment to do her routes, pushed herself to, even though she wasn’t feeling well, or herself. She ran through checkpoints in silence. All the other couriers put their funds together and bought her kicks with a passport transmitter. They were red. She tried to keep herself from crying when she delivered her packages. They were so hand-held: toys, spices, books. She could mule them all, borrow a bicycle through straight-aways when cleared for it, sprint otherwise, jump over barricades, slide feet first under glass-enclosed garden overhangs arching over the streets—“fuck you gardens” the other couriers called them, on account of the old money that made such projects possible on a thoroughfare—the armed gardeners shaking pruning fists once the trespass was discovered. Too late, always too late. She was the rabbit who could slip through any fence. The exhaustion didn’t slam her until she bounded up the steps to the agent’s apartment, as the day was ending. The agent had nothing but wine to drink, not even safe water.

“Whew,” Marigold said, catapulting onto the bed with a non-alcoholic bottle. She checked the messages; one from an R someone. Had to have been the author. She turned on the screen and flinched at the first sight of him. White hair like ash. A face that could have been a training surgeon’s palette—too much flesh in one cheek and not enough in the other (both were rosy), a thick nose broken and reset, though not perfectly, a jaw that had molar outlines under the skin like the baby corn cobs she liked to eat from the Chinese charity meal packets. His face was too much for Marigold. She did, upon seeing him, want to know what was in the notebook, but she wanted to hear it from Amar, not this man.

“Hi,” the author said. He coughed. Marigold crossed her legs and drank half the bottle while the author gathered his thoughts in the darkness around him. “Hey. Um, listen—I hope you’re doing well, by the way—I needed to check in, about your . . . your appraisal of the manuscript. I know, I know, these things take time. You’re always telling me to be patient. But I’m . . . I’m really under the gun here.” He laughed and took a sip from a red straw. “Grandkids need to eat, to go to school, you know . . . you know?” It was storming in Minnesota. Purple lightning. The gutter purifiers were gathering water off the roof, distilling it through pipes and into basement barrels. He lived in the savannah in the old zoo. Foundations of most of the old buildings existed, but only those. “See, here’s the thing. They’re raising my levies and fees here. I think it’s a plot to get rid of me. I want to write for people in Nebraska, but I don’t want to live there, you know?” He sucked the last liquid through the straw. “So I need your assessment . . . soon. Or I’ll find another agent.” He thought that this last threat would get her attention. “Oh! There is another small issue. There’s a piece of memorabilia that happened to be in that notebook. Nothing of too much consequence . . . but, if you could . . . if you could return it to me, it would be much appreciated. You can take the postage out of the future earnings of the book.” He rattled his head, to draw him back to the most important matter at hand. “I want a fast sell!” He then hung up and folded up his empty drink box.

A giant sloth brayed outside his window. Only gentle animals lived in the complex anymore, but he still didn’t trust them. Then he heard the monorail approaching, creaking through the rain. He sighed and went out to his front porch, and watched the monorail come in.

Inside the front car was that sloth, large as a horse, pawing at the windows. The monorail was automated. Someone from another part of the complex must have lured the sloth onto the monorail and sent it his way. The monorail halted. Could it have been the super? (The super liked to call himself the zookeeper. But he was really just an asshole.)

“Lion savannah,” the monorail’s calming voice said. “Please exit carefully.” The doors to the car, which should have been welded shut with rust years ago, creaked open, and the sloth exited onto the platform in front of Roger’s house. The platform was narrow, but the sloth had sure feet, and bobbing its head, moved closer to Roger’s front door. Its eyes were yellow and shot.

Below him, the waves of rain rustled the sedge. Swampy run-off. He didn’t like venturing down there in the best of conditions, or travel far on foot. Green Path to the theater, Red Path to the general store, Purple Path to the megafauna barn. No. He took the monorail for Friday night cinema. The other tenants liked what they showed on the giant screen more than he did. They were the type of people who enjoyed movies from Bangladesh that didn’t make sense—lots of violence, but in the wrong ways and places (Mughal romantic comedies that somehow ended in bloodbaths; a series of six galling musicals following the Ural Mujahideen). Roger only allowed his writers-in-residence to visit the cinema once a month. He didn’t want their minds poisoned any more than necessary. Other years he had four, five writers from his readerly provinces learn from him. Numbers dwindled, though. He wasn’t sure the sole young woman given to him was up for the job. The monorail closed its doors and creaked forward to the primate house. Roger took a step back and clanged the bell next to his front door. He didn’t stop until his apprentice arrived. The sloth was taking its time. The apprentice was taller than he was, and the tan uniform was too short in the sleeves for her. She was out of breath and she smelled like woodsmoke. The walkway from the monorail platform to Roger’s raised porch was about twenty feet and had flimsy railings on each side. The house itself was on concrete pillars above the veldt. There was nowhere for the sloth to go except forward and it did. But it was groggy. The sloth had to have been tranquilized.

As it moved closer, Roger could see that something glowing was attached to the fur on its side.

“Apprentice, see what’s on its fur.”

“What? No.”

“Do not disobey a direct order!”

She sighed.

“Did you bring your sidearm?” he said.

She shook her head. “I . . . I was fixing the furnace, like you told me to.”

“It’s moments like these that provide you the writing material that will change your life forever!” he barked. “And to fully seize the moment, you need to be properly armed. That’s the bedrock of this household, do you understand?”

She slowly nodded.

He put a hand on her shoulder, and tried to meet her in the eye, though she would not meet him in the eye. “Fetch your sidearm, and also the rocket launcher from my study.”

“Which one?” she asked.

He paused, not wanting to seem too greedy for carnage in front of her. “The small one.”

While she was in the house, the sloth did an ambling circle toward him, then shuffled sideways. He darted forward, thinking to himself how brave and stupid he was. But he also wanted to prove to his apprentice that he would not make her do what he would not do himself.

The sloth reeked like shit, and underneath the fur Roger could see sores. Reconstituted, it was not made for these times. He could also see that some bastard had tagged the sloth’s hide with iridescent paint. It was a message:

BIG MURDERER

FUCK OFF N DIE

LEAVE

“I’ve got the weapons,” the apprentice said, the pistol in her holster and the rocket launcher slung over her shoulder. “I also brought a notebook and pen . . .” She managed to smile. “In case the inspiration—”

“Give me that,” he said, taking the rocket launcher from her, turning off the safety settings. His first thought, which immediately shamed him, was to kill her, to point the rocket launcher ten feet from her chest and to blow a hole through her and send the rest of her into the old lion sanctuary below. His hands shook; he had trouble keeping the rocket launcher level as he arced it past her body—a clear safety violation, how could he be teaching her anything—and toward the sloth. The storm was tapering, though the wind pushed the rain back and forth through the air.

“This is just another example of how the world hates us and our ideas,” he said. “You have to keep being strong . . . persisting . . .”

“What’s on the fur?” she said. His outbursts and directives were not reaching her. She was getting numb; too numb for his training to have proper effects. She was broken down, but he honestly didn’t know whether he had the strength to build her up again. “Do you want me to—”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s one of those Shiite gang symbols.”

“That’s not nothing,” she said.

The sloth raised its head, took a few dizzy steps, and lumbered toward them.

“Kill it!” she shouted at Roger.

He tried to steady himself, lowered his center of gravity. The sloth’s tongue sloshed gray. It was a herbivore, but didn’t they mix in leopard DNA? Did the zookeeper tell him that once? His feet slipped, and as he fell forward his finger pushed forward on the trigger. The shot screamed, a wall of fire and metal vapor rushed toward him.

He woke up in the middle of the night, on his bed, with the fireplace blazing. The apprentice stood over him.

“You broke your arm,” she said. “I splinted it.”

“The sloth . . .” he said.

“The rocket smashed into the walkway,” she said. Her voice was flat. “The walkway collapsed and the sloth went down. Don’t worry. I set up a rope bridge across.”

“That can’t be safe . . .”

“It’s safe enough. I worked the whole day on it.”

He tried to sit up. “I need to call the complex security . . . whoever did this . . .”

She gently pushed him down on his good shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve already taken care of it. You shouldn’t have to tolerate that kind of attack.” She took out her notebook, flipping through the corners, and handed him her notebook. “I’ve written all about it. I free-wrote all night.”

He took it from her. He wanted to say he was proud of her.

“But you shouldn’t read it until you’re feeling better,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, Roger.”

“What . . .” He didn’t have the strength. He smelled napalm and ash still. He had assumed it was from her earlier chores.

“I learned explosives pretty well from my father. He used to take down Omaha rail lines in the wars. Did you know that you have bags and bags of potash in the basement?”

When she left the bedroom, to set up a defensive perimeter, he read her exercise book.

“THIRD PERSON EXERCISE: MOMENT OF PLOT RESOLUTION

“Charity McClune knew who had come to kill them: Dumbocrats, in league with homosexual imams and ecoterrorist Jews, with Mexican footsoldiers brought in from their misguided revolutions, financed by turban-wearing geothermal vice lords from India. They would stop at nothing. She had to stop them. How fitting that the seeds of their own destruction would be carried on a monorail—the transportation of choice for Communists and their broken dreams. She smirked as she assessed her handiwork. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, blue like the glacier waters of her hometown in Free Alaska. She knew the price of freedom and was willing to pay any price for it. Those other people, they were full of hate for her and her teacher, a great American—”