Page 39 of Death of the Author

“Correct.” He took a sip of wine and looked over the remains of his huge lobster. “Now, as for you, what do you think? Do you want to try the exos?”

Zelu swallowed. She knew the answer, but... “Will they even work on me?”

He hummed. “Ah, you’ve done your research.”

That wasn’t an answer. She narrowed her eyes. “Will they?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You can’t know until you try. You fit the profile we’d need, and your being a swimmer helps alot. Acclimation is not a gentle process; it’s very physical. Someday we’ll be able to make it easier, but not yet.”

She thought for a moment, and then asked what she feared most. “Will I get... weird, if they do work?”

Hugo rubbed his chin. “There are a few dozen paraplegic exos users now. That’s not a big sample size, but of all of them, maybe a third need some therapy. What you need to remember most is that exos arenota cure. They are a tool.” Then he snapped forward, looking at her with excitement. “Butthat gap between human and robot is closing. Your exos will feel damn close to being your own flesh and bone. You’ll begin to feel that these things are yours.”

Zelu frowned, taking all this in. “Why me?”

“It started with your book. I read it and it got me thinking. Then I learned you were paraplegic and that got me wondering. Then there was some interview where you talked about beingin conversationwith your body instead of controlling it. I thought to myself, ‘I’m a big-shot professor with big-shot research. I have resources and pull, I’ve reached my ‘ultimate boon’... You taught creative writing, you know that term from—”

“Yeah, from Joseph Campbell’sHero’s Journey,” Zelu finished for him. “The ultimate boon is the goal of the quest.” But she had to admit she was impressed with his literary knowledge.

“Right,” he agreed. “I’ve reached that point, and, damn, it feels good. You, on the other hand, are just beginning your journey. So I thought, ‘Well, let’s build her some exos, then see what she writes.’” He paused, gave a sly look, clapped his hands, and added, “And come on, Zelu, let’s be real; a black woman sci-fi writer with a killer novel out—it’s fuckin’ great PR.”

Zelu couldn’t hold back her giggles at his blunt honesty. “True!”

They smiled at each other and the moment settled.

Zelu pinched her chin, a heavy thought that she didn’t want to consider coming forth. She sighed and then just spoke her mind. “But what if... what if it ruins my writing?”

He leaned forward, cocking his head. “Is that ever how it works?”

She thought about it, then scoffed. “No.”

He smiled. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

She gestured between them. “I’m here, right?”

He sat back, folding his hands behind his neck. They both knew he had her. “Yeah, you’re here.”

17

Rice and Stew

She was in the ether between dream and reality, almost awake, when a soft female voice said to her: “Imagine waking up in the morning and deciding how tall you want to be.” She opened her eyes, the dream fleeing like a bird. She tried to recall it—flashes of Msizi, maybe of them running together. She stared at the ceiling as she sighed. Then she pushed herself up and into the day.

Zelu checked her email. Her publisher’s appointed publicist was asking her to field yet more interview requests, including one fromThe Daily Show. There were eighteen messages from random people begging her to be on podcasts. She had been nominated for some award. Her agent wanted to talk on the phone so he could rave about her book sales. Some Nigerian guy had sent her his manuscript, demanding that she read it because it was “similar” to what she had written;Let us discuss, he’d said. She stopped browsing, muttering, “Ugh, fuck this shit.” She cleared all her phone notifications and went to the kitchen.

After making some tea, she went out to the patio, her phone on her lap. A dashing male cardinal flitted among the budding branches, a speck of redlike a message from the Yoruba god Shango. The air smelled fresh and the temperature was already in the sixties. Spring was around the corner. If she were teaching, she’d be on spring break at this time. She smiled and sipped her tea. She didn’t have to worry about that shit anymore.

By now, they had to have heard plenty aboutRusted Robotsback at the university. Initially, the thought of that Seth Daniels guy going to them for interviews had been enough to trigger a panic attack, but she now actually hoped journalists would ask them about her. Wouldn’t it be great for an article to come out about how adjunct teaching was a nasty, exploitative business? Let them explain how they’d treated her like trash and basically chased her away. Those fucking shit students who’d ganged up to get her fired were hopefully kicking themselves. Only days ago, yet another one of them had emailed her an apology. When she had time, she’d respond to him with two words: “Fuck off.”

Her phone buzzed. MIT had just sent her a travel itinerary. It was officially time to tell her family about the exos program. It was Saturday, which meant everyone would gather right here at the house as they did every week. Perfect timing for getting it over with in one fell swoop. What could go wrong? She looked down at her legs and gave them a loving squeeze.

Chinyere arrived first, at around 6 p.m., with her sons. Over the next two hours, Amarachi, Bola, Tolu, and Uzo showed up. Today they’d left their kids and partners at home. Their mother made rice and stew, fried plantain, steamed broccoli, and corn. They sat around the table and discussed politics, sports, houseplants, and whatever other random topics came up. Zelu waited quietly for the right moment, nibbling at some broccoli.

After a while, their father corralled all of them into the living room, as usual. The more time passed, the more nervous she grew. Her family was always loud, but tonight, they were especially loud. Her mother and father had practically shouted at each other over why the Nigerian president was garbage. Chinyere had demonstrated several trendy new dances she’d seenher kids doing, all of which seemed to focus on her undulating ass. Bola had happily joined in and quickly stole the show, to Chinyere’s delight. Tolu and Uzo had gotten into an argument over something they saw on social media. Zelu felt exhausted by the night’s routine activities already, but she was anxious to tell her family about her upcoming trip to MIT and the reason for it.

“Everyone,” she finally said when things quieted down for a moment. All eyes turned toward her. “Okay... I... I have something to tell you.”

“Have you been smoking again?” Amarachi blurted out, and Tolu cackled.

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