Page 13 of Death of the Author

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Rusted Robots went on sale to much fanfare and excitement. It seemed like everyone was reading it. Her parents were reading it. Even her siblings were reading it! (Finally.) Zelu wondered if they needed it

to be officially released before they took it seriously. Her parents and brother had ordered copies from the bookstore. Chinyere

had seen and bought it in the supermarket. Amarachi had preordered the electronic version on her phone. And Uzo and Bola had

preordered the audiobook.

Tolu couldn’t restrain himself. He kept calling and leaving messages every time something in the plot made him feel an emotion,

be it surprise, rage, glee, despair, amusement, hopelessness, or hope. Two of her more tolerable ex-students had gone so far

as to email her apologies and then ended their notes with comments about how much they loved the book. She’d driven past a

woman sitting at a bus stop reading it. People on the street had even started recognizing her from her author photo. It was

creepy. But it was wonderful to know so many people still read books!

Every week, her agent would email updates about her sales numbers. Her publicist kept forwarding new reviews—not that it was necessary, because her mother, now a fan of the novel, kept sending them to her, too. All of them. Even the not-so-great ones, since there were always some of those. The one she hated most so far said, “There are unscalable slabs of robotic dialogue congesting the forward movement of the story.” Her mother had read the whole piece aloud to her at dinner, laughing. Since the book was selling so well, her mother thought Zelu would want to laugh at them, too. Zelu didn’t. With all the reviews, positive and negative, she felt like a small creature in a rainstorm, dodging raindrops for her life. She didn’t want to see any of them.

One day, after her mother forwarded her another five fresh book reviews (three from bloggers, one from a notable online media

source, and one from a Nigerian magazine), she decided she needed some air. She called for an autonomous vehicle on her app,

and five minutes later she was off, with no driver to talk to or possibly recognize her. She sat back and looked out the window,

trying to enjoy the smooth ride. After a few trips, Zelu had become so comfortable with the vehicle’s capabilities that she

didn’t give it a second thought. However, instead of calming her, today the solitude just gave her more space to spiral. She’d

thought that having people read and love her novel would overshadow any bad responses, but somehow it just made all the scrutiny

and judgment and picking her words apart feel even more personal.

She should have been thrilled. Instead, she just wanted to cry.

Why do I keep sabotaging myself? She wondered for the millionth time. It was a pattern, wasn’t it? Spending ten years writing pretentious, dispassionate literature that she didn’t even enjoy reading. Adjuncting at the university that barely allowed her to afford a shitty one-bedroom first-floor

apartment. Getting an MFA in literature instead of a PhD. Fucking that entitled idiot on prom night. Reading War and Peace . Being too afraid to stand up to the elder in Nigeria who’d said she was beautiful in the face, but “crippled” and “useless”

everywhere else. Climbing into that tree during the game instead of outrunning those kids.

Maybe those bad reviews were more honest than the others. Maybe they saw the truth of her.

She squeezed her face in her hands. “Ugh, stupid,” she whispered. “Do better, Zelu. My God.”

The vehicle dropped her off at the beach of Lake Michigan. She wheeled along the boardwalk for a while. She was going pretty

far. All the way to the pier. It was a warm and muggy afternoon. She’d pulled back her braids and wore no makeup, so getting

sweaty was no big deal.

A refreshing breeze tumbled off the water and immediately she felt better. She looked toward the waves and smiled. How hard

would it be to wheel to the pier edge, lean forward, and splash in? The lake would probably be shockingly cold, but that wouldn’t

stop her. She’d casually backstroke away, letting the water take her wherever it wanted her to go. She’d never had any fear

of bodies of water, not even the vastness of the ocean. It excited her, how deep and unknown the ocean was.

“None of your siblings care for swimming the way you do,” her mother always said. All her siblings enjoyed sports, but Zelu

was the only one who loved to swim like her father. Tolu had played soccer in high school and college, Chinyere had been a

high jumper, and Bola had been so good on the wrestling team that it got her a scholarship. Amarachi and Uzo liked jogging

on the track to stay fit.

Before the accident, when she was about ten years old, Zelu had begun competitive swimming. Her favorite styles were the butterfly

and the backstroke. She’d always had immense upper-body strength, and the motions were cathartic, as if she was doing what

her body was meant to do. After the accident, it was water rehab that brought her back from the darkest corners of her mind.

The realization that she could still swim well saved her.

The pier was nearly deserted, and as she looked down at the waves, she had the fantasy again. Lean in. And splash . Then she’d swim and swim and swim away. Away from all of it. Her rusted robots would live on, beyond her. They were made

to live beyond humanity. They’d be fine. And she could swim into her future and never think about her past again.

“You’re that writer with that book,” an old black man beside her said.

She slowly looked at him. He might have been in his early sixties or even seventies; you never knew with black people. He looked like an old-timer from the South Side, probably living in one of the brownstones in Hyde Park, who’d participated in the protests during the Trump-era pandemic madness. He had that intense, stubborn look about him. And apparently, he was a reader.

“Did you read it?” she asked him.

“Yep.” He paused, chewing on his lip. Then he raised his eyebrows and said, “Girl, what the fuck you got bouncing around in

your head?”

Zelu laughed hard.

“When I found out you was in a wheelchair, it blew my mind. But I get it, too.”

She cocked her head. “Oh yeah? What do you get?”

“Your different point of view,” he said, leaning on the rail. “You knew what it was to walk and then not. And you smart, too...

and angry .”

“You think I’m angry?”

He clicked his tongue and shrugged. “Only an angry woman could write that shit. All that drama and war, even after the end

of humanity.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m a little angry. What black woman isn’t?”

“Facts. For good reason,” he said.

They looked out at the water for a while. The wind that rolled off it was so pleasant that she felt a bit teary-eyed.

“I don’t usually read sci-fi,” he said.

“Me neither,” she admitted, wrapping her arms around her chest. “I prefer stuff that’s realistic. I still think it’s weird

that I wrote it.”

“Young lady, it’s a victory that you allowed yourself to write it.”

“Thank you,” she said.

When he walked away, she watched him go. He’d lived so many decades able to walk. She was glad for him. She’d only had twelve

years.

She turned back to Lake Michigan.

An hour later, she was in the self-driving vehicle on her way home. Her phone was buzzing and beeping with its usual social media notifications and emails. The poor Yebo app was still learning how to compile it all, so the notifications kept popping up and then getting pulled into a more organized list. Then an image of Tolu’s wife, Folashade, filled up the screen. Yebo announced, “Call from: Answer the phone, it’s me. Answer the phone, it’s me. Answer the phone, it’s me .”

Zelu had muted every caller in her contacts list except for her family and Msizi. She was considering narrowing that down

to just Msizi.

She pressed Accept. “Yes?” she asked.

“What are you doing downtown?” Folashade asked.

Zelu rolled her eyes, opening her map app to track her sister-in-law right back. “What are you doing in Naperville?”

“Can you come and watch over Man Man for the rest of the day? I’m sorry, I know you must be busy. But you can bring your work

with you, right?”

Zelu smiled. She was actually in need of another distraction. Hanging out with Man Man, a humongous black Maine Coon cat who

required the attention of a human at all times, was perfect. “I’m coming right now.”

“Seriously?” Ola asked. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Gimme a chance to reroute.”

She heard Ola huff through her nose. “You’re still using that autonomous vehicle cab service I’m always hearing about?”

“Yeah, I use it all the time.”

Silence.

“Hello?” Zelu asked.

“I’ve heard some scary stories about those,” Ola said forcefully. “Interrupting its route might be—”

“I’m already doing it,” Zelu said, swiping onto the app. “See you soon.”

She hung up just as the destination changed. An additional charge showed up on the screen embedded in the driver’s seat back.

The car suddenly jerked its way to the side of the road. “Whoa,” she said. “What are you doing?”

It pulled back onto the outer lane, narrowly missing another car. It zipped to the other side of the street and turned into

a parking lot. Way too fast, it made a circle, and then got back on the road in the other direction.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, holding on to the armrests on her chair.

When the SUV arrived at her brother’s house, the screen on the seat back filled up with the word Sorry written a dozen times in fat, skinny, large, small, multicolored fonts. “We understand that today’s ride was a little bumpy,”

the automated voice said. “Please accept our apologies. This ride is on the house. Next time, we will do better.” Then in

the middle of the sorry s, an Accept button appeared. Zelu had seen this feature only once before, after her vehicle had gotten stuck in a busy supermarket parking

lot for a half hour. Like then, now she clicked the button. There wasn’t another button to not accept. And if she didn’t tap it, maybe the doors wouldn’t open, and she’d end up talking to customer service for an hour.

Besides, she was alive and the SUV had done its job. When one got into an autonomous vehicle, one knowingly accepted certain

risks. She was fine.

She wheeled up to her brother’s front door, and just as she was about to use her key, it opened on its own.

“Zelu, good afternoon,” Tolu said. “Did Folashade seriously call you to take care of Man Man?”

Zelu laughed. “You guys need to have some kids.”

“Nah.” He held the door open and motioned for her to come in.

Once she’d entered, Tolu stepped outside. “Where are you going?” she asked.

He turned around and gestured behind him, toward the street. “Back to the office. Where I’ll be all night, working on this

fucking case. I’ll see you, Zelu.”

“Later,” she said. “And good luck.”

He grunted, getting into his car.

Tolu and Folashade’s house always made her smile. It was so luxurious, with antique furniture, Nigerian art on the walls either

grinning or scowling at her, spotless white couches, brightly wallpapered walls, and the ever-present smell of a scented candle

burning somewhere.

She didn’t have to look hard to find Man Man. He was lounging like a French girl on the plush white couch, looking at her with his “come hither” eyes. Zelu always wondered how they kept that couch so white and perfect when this nearly twenty-pound house panther spent his days on it. He was sprawled right on top of a well-read-looking copy of Rusted Robots .

“Heeeey, Man Man.”

Man Man slowly blinked his stunning green eyes at her and meowed his low-pitched meow. Then he languidly got up and strolled

to her. He rubbed his body against her legs and wheelchair, and she smiled. Man Man didn’t like most people. He wasn’t mean

about it. He knew he didn’t have to be. But he’d take one look at them and then slowly... leave. Zelu always loved watching

him do that. He couldn’t care less about being polite or kind. However, from the moment she’d met him five years ago when

he was a kitten, she and he had hit it off nicely.

She moved herself to the couch, tossed the book on the floor, and turned on the TV. Man Man quickly jumped onto her lap and

made himself comfortable. He was so big and heavy and he loved Zelu so much that she knew she wasn’t going anywhere for a

while. “All right, Man Man,” she said to him as she petted his luxurious fur. She flipped through the channels and settled

on a rerun of The Martian , a film she’d always found oddly comforting. She brought up her phone and was about to check her social media feeds when

she saw that she’d gotten an email.

The subject read, “MIT Study. You interested?” It was from a Dr. Hugo Wagner.

Dear Zelunjo,

Greetings, my name is Dr. Hugo Wagner. I’m a mechanical engineer at MIT. I direct the biomechatronics research group. I’m

doing some work on what are called exoskeletons for people just like you. I’ve read your novel and I absolutely loved it.

I saw an interview with you... you said, “I’ve always accepted what I am; why wouldn’t I accept what I can be?” You won’t

be “rusted” because I use plastic polymers, but I can make you a robot. Well, a partial robot. One who can walk really well,

even run. And your exoskeletons will be weatherproof and lightweight. They will not be directly connected to your brain or

nervous system, so no invasive surgery required.

This email probably sounds crazy, I know. Like a prequel to your novel. I assure you, this is the real deal. Please respond

and we can have a better conversation. Just understand, this is all possible. Hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Dr. Hugo Wagner

“What the fuck?” she whispered. She almost yelped, but Man Man was asleep on her lap and she managed to hold herself back

from waking him. She frowned down at her phone screen. “Um... well, first things first.” She looked at the email address.

It checked out. It was an official university address. She Googled it and immediately Dr. Wagner’s faculty profile popped

up. The man in the photo was tall, white, maybe in his fifties, and looked like he spent his research time at the gym. And

then there was the one detail that sent shivers up her spine—

He stood leaning against a wall and wearing an expensive suit, his muscular arms folded across his chest, a knowing smirk

on his face... the lower parts of his pants cut above where his knees would have been to show off his sleek, shiny prosthetic

limbs.

She read his bio. He’d put the whole story right there: He’d been a mountain climber who’d lost his legs after a hang-gliding

accident. And now he could climb higher, faster, and longer. He was a real-life bionic genius. “Whoa,” she whispered.

She watched his TED Talk on YouTube next, where he discussed his research on prosthetics and leg exoskeletons, though the

ones in this five-year-old talk were made of metal, not plastic polymers as the email described.

She went back to the email again and triple-verified the address. She sat back and just stared at Man Man’s black fur. She petted him and he purred, deep and guttural, stretching out to drape himself more comfortably over her lap.

She rubbed her temples, tears escaping her eyes. She didn’t even know what the tears were for yet. But still they came.

“Fuck,” she murmured to herself. “I’m so broken.”

Man Man looked at her and meowed as if to say, What are you waiting for? She rubbed his fur and sighed. She didn’t need to decide anything today, but it could be interesting to speak with this guy.

At the very least, like the autonomous vehicle, this would be good research for book two. She responded to his email.

A half hour later, The Martian had finished and now an old rerun of Naruto was on, a show she’d watched so many times that zoning out to it was like meditating. “Believe it!” Naruto proclaimed just

as her phone buzzed with an email’s arrival.

She swiped away the ever-present Yebo notification of compiled Rusted Robots media posts and read the email. She shivered and dumped her phone on the couch beside her. “Shit,” she whispered. She tried

to pick up Man Man, but he went limp and was too heavy to move. She set him back on her lap and stared at the TV, eyes unfocused.

“My God, what have I done?” Then she giggled to herself, maybe a bit manically, as she realized she’d just quoted an oldie

by the Talking Heads that her father loved to play.

Dr. Hugo Wagner had just responded. He wanted to meet with her immediately. In two days. He was flying into Chicago just to

meet her. Her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it. Another email, this time with the name of the restaurant where he wanted

to get together. It was right in Orland Park. “I’ve started something else,” she whispered.

But mixed with her anxiety was excitement. She grabbed her phone and confirmed their plans.

She spent the rest of the evening surfing YouTube for more videos about the leg exoskeletons he’d built. The structures fitted to the user’s nonfunctioning legs. Not only did they allow the user to walk, but the exos could also grant abilities beyond the human body: strength, balance, and speed. Who knew this kind of technology was available now? How come no one had told her?

As she watched the video clips and learned more, tears started rolling down her face. Soon she was absolutely sobbing. They

weren’t tears of joy, thrill, or happiness... but they weren’t tears of sadness, either. She didn’t know what direction

she was going, but she was in motion.

When she got home hours later, after her sister-in-law had returned to relieve her from cat duties, her mother was waiting

in the kitchen.

“I made you some beans and plantain,” she said. “Let me get it for you.”

Zelu wheeled toward the table. “Thanks, Mom.”

“How was your day?” her mother asked she as loaded up the plate.

“Weird.”

Her mother paused, looking at Zelu’s face closely. “Go on.”

So you can call me crazy? “Actually, nah, don’t want to get into it.” She laughed. “It was okay. Went to the lake, then Tolu’s place—”

“To see that leopard?”

Her mother was terrified of Man Man. She said that in Nigeria, people put teams together to hunt that kind of animal. And

when the animal was caught, there was a great celebration as its coat was presented to the king.

“Yep.” Zelu grinned. “Man Man is a big furry angel.”

“Until he decides you’re ready to be eaten,” her mother said. She set the beans and plantain on the table, and Zelu’s mouth

instantly began to water. Once again, she’d forgotten to eat all day.

“Be careful around that animal,” her mom warned. “Remember, you can’t exactly run away.”

Normally, a comment like this would have gotten on her nerves, but not today. Maybe I can’t run away right now. But who knows what the future holds? Zelu thought. She dug into her spicy mashed black-eyed peas and plantain fried to brown perfection. “Oooooh, yeah,” she moaned.