Lexicon (11 page)

•   •   •

After classes, she decided to fetch him a slushie. He would be studying all afternoon and have no time for her; she knew that. She wouldn’t bother him and wouldn’t expect anything to be different. But she would fetch him a slushie.

On the way out, she noticed Eliot’s door was open. She hesitated. She hadn’t seen him for months, had been looking forward to his next visit, but right now she should probably avoid him. Because maybe Eliot could tell. But then he came out of his office and it was too late. “Hey!” she said. “Busy? You look busy.”

“Yes. Leaving. But you can walk with me.”

“Okay.” She fell into step. They walked in silence. She transitioned from being worried that Eliot would figure it out to disappointed that he hadn’t. “How’s life?”

“How’s life?”

“Yes.”

“Life’s good.”

“Good.” They passed a group of boys loitering with intent, who straightened and shifted. Eliot was well respected here. It was widely believed that he taught so rarely because he was usually required to be away doing mysterious and badass things. “I was thinking about my name. My poet name, I mean, when I graduate. I decided I want to be Emily Dickinson.”

“You can’t be Dickinson.”

“I could keep my first name. Also, awesome little poems about death. She’s literally the only poet I don’t hate.”

“We already have an Emily Dickinson.”

“Aw.”

“Also, graduates aren’t given the names of world-renowned poets,” said Eliot. “You’ll be someone you’ve never heard of.”

“Is there a list I can choose from?”

“No.”

“You guys are hard-asses.” They reached the front door and descended the steps. “Well, see you round.”

He paused. “You’re happier.”

“What?”

“You seem happy.”

She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful day, Eliot, what do you want me to say?” He didn’t answer. “You should get out more,” she said. She walked away. He was going to call her back; she could feel it. He would know everything. But he didn’t, and her tension eased, and by the time she reached the gate, she was humming.

•   •   •

She purchased two slushies and almost got hit by a car running across the road while carrying them back. She balanced them in the crook of her arm and knocked on Jeremy’s door. When he called out, she pushed the door open with her hip. “Refreshment!”

He looked at the slushies. He wasn’t as happy as she’d hoped.

“Thank you, Emily,” she said.

“Thanks.”

She deposited the slushie on his desk and leaned her butt against the wall. She had intended to give him the drink and go, but now she didn’t want to. “How’s the study going?”

“Slowly.”

She nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless you want a study break.” She raised her eyebrows.

“That can’t happen again.”

“What can’t happen?”

“You know what.” His voice dropped. “We shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I forgive you.” She tried to keep it light, but her heart was sinking through her stomach. She had seen this coming, hadn’t she? She’d practically provoked it. But now she felt sick.

“If they knew, I’d be expelled.”

“We both would.”

“Yes, but . . .” He tapped the books lightly with his fingers. “This is my final exam. I can’t fuck this up.”

She stared at him.

“You understand, right? I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Are you,” she said.

“I think you’re a great person—”

She threw her slushie. It exploded on his head, red juice and ice chips flying everywhere, splashing his books and papers. He sat frozen, dripping. She slammed the door on the way out.

•   •   •

She had soccer and was in no mood for it. She stood rooted in the defensive half of the field and didn’t chase. Sashona, on the opposing team, concentrated her attacks on Emily’s wing to capitalize on her apathy. Once she ran past while Emily just stood there, and after she scored, she ruffled Emily’s hair.

The next time Sashona pounded toward her, the ball bobbling along in front of her, Emily decided to put Sashona on the ground. She moved to intercept and Sashona’s face hardened in a way that told Emily to expect the shoulders. A word bubbled to Emily’s lips, one of the attention words she had discovered in Sashona’s room.
Kassonin.
That was the word. It would be enough to kick Sashona in the brain just long enough for Emily to knock her flat, and she would use it because she had
not
used it on Jeremy, even though she could have, because he was, like Sashona, a thirteen.
Kassonin, bitch.
Her head was full of blood.
Eat MY shoulders.

They collided. By the time Emily got up, Sashona was jogging back to her half, doing the fist pump. She had scored while Emily was on her ass. “Fuuuck,” Emily said, and Sashona laughed.

•   •   •

She had to get away for a while, so instead of changing she headed for the school gate. She was almost there when she heard footsteps. Jeremy was running after her. “Em! Wait!” She didn’t want to, but some small, stupid part of her thought,
Maybe he changed his mind
. He caught her, breathing fast. He’d showered, put on a fresh shirt. His cheeks were pink. “Let’s not end things this way.”

“What?”

“We’ve been friends for two years. I don’t—”

“
Gah
,” she said, as soon as she heard the word
friends
. She walked.

He trotted beside her. “You can’t tell anyone.” She didn’t answer. “They will expel you. They’ve done it before. They’ll send you fucking home.”

“Maybe you made me do it,” she said. “Maybe you took advantage of me, with your words.”

He stopped. When she reached the gate, he yelled, “
How dare you!
” She flinched, because there was fury in his voice. She kept walking. She wasn’t going to accuse him of anything, couldn’t he tell that? She just wanted him to feel something. “
Come back! Come back here!
” The traffic was flowing but she threaded through it to the other side. A van honked. She turned to see Jeremy stranded outside the gates, his face red. “
You say nothing!
”

“Make me.”

He stepped onto the road. She was reminded of Benny in San Francisco: how he’d been funny and kind until she pushed him too far. “Stop,” she said. Jeremy knew her. He did know her segment. He was about to graduate and he could make her do whatever he wanted. “I’m sorry! I won’t tell!” He was halfway across, paused between lanes, his face thick with anger. He waited for a car, threw a glance to his right, and ran at her. She screamed, “
Kassonin!
”

His head jerked. He stopped. For a moment he was a child. Then he came back. She saw shock in his eyes and outrage and fear. She was transfixed by his face. Then a car swept him away. She shrieked and couldn’t hear herself over the tires.

•   •   •

She wanted to go to the hospital but they wouldn’t let her. She had to stay in the sitting room, the same place Charlotte had interviewed her when she’d first arrived, curled up in the same armchair.

Finally, Eliot came in, wearing a long coat. She opened her mouth to ask about Jeremy but could see the answer on his face. She covered her face with her hands and cried.

“Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head, not looking up. He crossed the rug and lifted her chin. “No,” she said, and tried to cover her ears. He pulled away her hands and spoke and her mind went away. When she returned to herself, he was sitting in the chair across the rug, his eyes dark. She closed her mouth and swallowed. Her throat felt sore.

“Your time here is over,” he said.

“Please don’t send me away. Please.”

He stood. She began to cry again, but there was no pity in his eyes. He left.

KILLED STUDENT “RAN INTO TRAFFIC”

Police say the student who was struck and killed by a vehicle on Montebury Avenue on Friday was attempting to cross the busy road away from lights or crossings.

The driver, a 39-year-old woman from Orange, was moving at or near the speed limit, police say.

The incident is likely to reignite calls for lights or a crossing, as it has been the scene of several accidents. The area was again targeted for upgrade in the Department of Transportation’s Pedestrian Safety Master Plan, but works were placed on hold last year due to local opposition.

The student is believed to have been in his final year at an exclusive Williamsburg school. His name and details have not been released.

[II]

Odysseus, who had first avoided identifying himself, and then given a false, impossible appellation, now supplies his real name in full: he is Odysseus, sacker of cities, son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca. Odysseus’ mention of his true name acts as a flash of illumination for the blind giant, who now comprehends an earlier prediction concerning his loss of sight. The enlightened Cyclops does not respond with stones this time, but with the force of words. Polyphemus is able, at long last, to bend language to his needs, and he carefully repeats, word for word, Odysseus’ name, epithet, patronym and country of origin, when he prays to his father Poseidon to punish him.

—
DEBORAH LEVINE GERA
,
Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization

Posted: 22 minutes ago See conversation

Well what happened is two weeks ago I went for a job interview and they turned around a laptop to face me and said, “Is this you?” And it was all this stuff I posted YEARS ago, pics of me passed out, drunk, long teenage rants about stupid shit, you know

So needless to say, no job

So before THIS interview I delete EVERYTHING, delete Facebook, delete Twitter, anything I can find. I go in and the first thing they ask is do I have Facebook. I say no. They say how about a college page, LinkedIn, anything. I say no. They look at each other and say well their company likes to “feel comfortable” with their new hires’ background but I don’t seem to have any. They’re not saying I’ve done anything wrong but when someone has no Facebook, it looks like they have something to hide

Seriously, you can’t win

[ONE]

The airplane climbed and Wil waited for the chopper to shoot at them, or crash into them, or explode for no reason, who knew. But minutes passed with nothing but the drone of the engines and the night spreading out ahead. “Are we clear?” he asked Tom, or T. S. Eliot, or whoever he was, and Eliot said nothing, but Wil thought they were. Exhaustion dumped into him all at once: One minute he was in fear for his life, the next he wanted to sleep. “I’m going to sit down, okay?” He made his way down the plane. He reached seats and collapsed into one. He should buckle up. But the buckles were so far away.

He opened his eyes to daylight. The world bumped and shook. He clutched at the armrests, his head full of half-remembered dreams. A girl with bad words. A kangaroo. The engines were wailing. Beyond the round windows he saw snow and wooden fence posts and these seemed very close and moving too fast. The note of the engines changed and they began to shed speed. The world slowed and stopped. Eliot emerged from the cockpit, flipped open a panel on the fuselage, and began to crank the door.

“Where are we?”

Eliot kept cranking. The door became a series of steps and he trotted down them.

Wil got to his feet. He was not thrilled about heading out into the snow again, but he did it. Eliot stood at the side of the road, urinating. Wil looked around. The blacktop stretched out as far as he could see. Power lines marched alongside. There was nothing else.

“Nice landing,” Wil said. He got nothing from Eliot but a steady stream of urine. “Where are we?”

Eliot zipped and walked a short distance down the road. Wil went after him. The plane was very modern, he noticed, sleek and clean with upturned wings. It was surprisingly large, too, although maybe that was because it was on a road, where it did not belong.

He stopped beside Eliot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. His breath fogged. “What now?”

“Next car that comes along, I’m catching a ride. Then I’m going to get some breakfast. Bacon, ideally. Lots of bacon.”

Wil shook snow from his boots. “Okay.”

“That’s me, though. You can do whatever you like.”

Wil squinted. “Say what?”

“We’re done. This is it. You go your way, I go mine.”

“What?”

“It’s over.”

“But the poets. Woolf . . . does she still want to kill me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So we have to hide. Go to more of your friends.”

“There are no more friends.”

Wil stared. “No?”

“No.”

“You mean your entire, what, resistance or whatever, got wiped out yesterday?
Everyone?
”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have a cell in another city or—”

“No.”

“Jesus.” Wil exhaled. “Then we need to stick together.”

“Hmm,” Eliot said.

“She’s coming after you, too, right? Woolf wants you dead.”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“So from your point of view, I’m a guy who can keep you alive. But from my point of view, you’re a useless sack of shit. You don’t help me at all.”

“You said I was important! You have to find out why I’m immune! To the words!”

“That was before,” Eliot said. “Circumstances changed.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Wil. “Wherever you’re going, I’m coming.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You can’t stop me. Your word voodoo, it doesn’t work on me. Right? So how do you think you’re going to—”

Eliot produced a pistol. He didn’t seem to pull it from anywhere. He just suddenly had it.

Wil’s eyes stung.

“See?” Eliot put away the gun. “There are all kinds of persuasion.” He gazed at the horizon again.

Wil’s breath steamed. “Okay. Okay.” Anger built inside him and he didn’t know what to do with it. “Fine. That’s how it is?” He walked back to the plane. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he could do it somewhere warm. He could do that. Halfway up the steps, he yelled, “What happened in Broken Hill? Woolf killed everyone, right?” Eliot didn’t move. “Yeah! So you go hide out while she does what she likes to the rest of us! You do that!” He shivered. He stomped up the steps.

•   •   •

Eliot stood on the road, scanning the horizon. His coat flapped around his legs. Wil would pop back out of that plane in about five minutes, by his estimation. That would be the point at which his fear of being abandoned surpassed his physiological desire for warmth. It would be useful if a car appeared before then. That way, Eliot could compromise the driver and be on his way without ever seeing Wil again.

The wind stung his cheeks. He couldn’t resist the comparison any longer: the last time he’d stood like this, waiting and watching to see what came over the horizon, carrying a gun and hoping not to need it. A little over a year ago. He had been outside Broken Hill.

•   •   •

He put the air-conditioning on full, but it made no difference: The sun blasted through the windshield, broiling him inside his shirt. The kid he’d collected from the airport, Campbell, squirmed and twisted his tie and finally pulled off his linen jacket and hung it over the back of his seat. “The sun looks bigger,” he said. “Can it actually be bigger?”

“It’s the ozone,” said Eliot. “There’s a hole.”

“Do you get used to it?”

“Not yet.”

“When I left DC, it was twelve degrees,” said the kid, rolling up his sleeves. “Twelve.” He glanced at Eliot. “You miss DC?”

“I visit.”

“Yeah, but . . .” The kid looked out the window at the blasted soil rolling by. “How long have you been out here, in total? Three months?”

“Seven.”

“Yeah.” The kid nodded. “Of course. Well, after this, you can go home.” He smiled.

Eliot looked at him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. Why?”

“How much do you know about what you’re doing?”

“Everything.” The kid laughed. “Eliot, I’m fully briefed. I’ve spent six weeks in intensive prep. I was selected for my talents. I know what I’m doing.”

Eliot said nothing.

“Four months ago, Virginia Woolf releases a bareword in Broken Hill, Australia, population three thousand. Now population zero. Official story, explosion in the ore refinery plant causing a catastrophic toxic leak. Town is fenced off at a radius of five miles. Scary signs promise death to all who enter. The funny part is the signs don’t lie. We send people in, they don’t come out. Hence the theory that the word is still in there.” He pulled his shirt out of his pants and flapped air. “Crazy idea, isn’t it? That a word can persist. Hang in the air, like an echo.”

“It can’t.”

“What, then? Because something bad is in there, and it ain’t a toxic leak.”

He almost didn’t say it. “Maybe Woolf.”

“Mmm,” said the kid. “Yeah, nobody really thinks that’s plausible, Eliot. We’re all pretty sure Woolf’s dead.” He tapped idly on the window. “We have satellite on that town. We’ve imaged it a hundred different ways. Nothing moves.”

Eliot drove in silence.

“I’m the best there is, defensively,” said the kid. “I mean, not to boast. But that’s why I’m here. I was selected because I can’t be compromised. There’s not going to be a problem.”

“You realize you’re betting your life on that.”

“I realize it.”

Eliot glanced at him.
Twenty-one
, he thought. “Who chose you? Yeats?”

“I have had the honor of speaking with Yeats, yes.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

The kid looked at him.
Give me a sign
, Eliot thought,
and we’ll blow right by Broken Hill, Campbell, keep going until we reach an airport. By sundown we’ll be a country away. You ever think about quitting, Campbell? Just walking away? And let me ask you something else: Have you noticed there’s something wrong with Yeats? Like something dead? Notice that?

The kid turned away. “You’ve been in the desert too long, Eliot.”

He watched the endless road. “You’re right about that,” he said.

•   •   •

He drove up to the chain-link fence and killed the engine. They sat in silence, looking at the signs.
CONTAMINATION. TOXIC. TRESPASS. DEATH.
Skulls and thick red lines. The heat pressed in like a hand. “They’re words, aren’t they?” said the kid. “Fear words.” He unbuckled. “I need to get out of this car.”

Outside was no cooler but at least the air was moving, stirring dust and sand. The road was blocked with a snarl of razor wire. To the left and right, the chain-link fence stretched away, signs flapping every few hundred feet. A few scrubby bushes protruded from the red soil. This continued as far as one could see.

He had wire cutters in the trunk, just in case, but nothing had changed since last time: The wire looped across the road but was not secured. It didn’t need to be. The kid was right: It was the words that kept people out. Eliot dragged the wire from the road.

The kid was trying to wrap his linen jacket around his head. “I have a hat in the back,” said Eliot. “Take that.”

“I’m okay.”

“Take the hat.” He opened the back door and retrieved the cap and a bottle of water.

“Fine. Thanks.” The kid jammed the cap on his head. The peak said:
THE THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER
. Eliot had picked it up from a street vendor in Adelaide. “How do I look?”

“You have a satellite phone?”

“Yep.”

“Call me.”

“It works. I checked at the airport. I’ll call you when I get into town.”

“Call me now.”

The kid produced his phone and poked at it. Eliot’s phone trilled.

“Okay?” said the kid.

“You have a backup battery.”

“I do.”

“And your main is full?”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it full?”

“Look.” The kid showed him the screen. “See the little battery? I know how to use a phone.”

“Call me as soon as you can no longer see me clearly. Then keep the line open. If the call drops, keep trying me until you get through.”

“Will do.”

“What’s your segment?”

“
What?
”

“Is it ninety-three?”

The kid’s face blanked. It was how they trained them. The kid was thinking about something else: something happy, something sad, something traumatic; only he knew. It was supposed to make him unreadable, by adding noise to his facial expression.

“You’re a ninety-three.”

“Shit,” said the kid. “You’re not supposed to do that. Why’d you do that?”

“For your protection.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t be compromised. You want to try me? Go ahead.”

Eliot considered it. He didn’t doubt that the kid was good. But he’d probably done most of his work in a relatively controlled environment. If Eliot jumped him, put a gun in his mouth, screamed words, well, that was not the same.

“Don’t worry about me,” said the kid. “I’m good to go.”

“Don’t take any risks. Anything looks wrong, don’t investigate. Just walk away. We don’t have to do everything today.”

The kid adjusted his
DOWN UNDER
cap. He thought Eliot was crazy, of course. “Well, I’m going to do this.”

Eliot nodded. “Good luck.”

“Heh,” said the kid. “Thanks.” He stepped around the razor wire and began to walk up the road.

•   •   •

With distance, the kid’s body shimmered in the heat haze rising out of the blacktop. Soon he was hard to make out at all, just another twisting current of air. Eliot stood with a hand shielding his face from the sun, watching.

His cell phone rang.

“Thanks for the cap,” said the kid. “Glad I’ve got it now.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I have seriously never been this hot.”

“Can you see the town’s outskirts?”

“Not yet.”

“Should be close.”

“Yeah, I know. I have the maps by heart.”

They fell silent. The sun beat down on Eliot’s head. He should retreat to the car. In a few minutes. He would wait until the kid reached the town.

“You used to teach her at the Academy. Virginia Woolf. That’s what I heard. Is that true?” The kid was panting a little. “We have to spend an hour on the phone, Eliot; we may as well talk. Jesus.” He blew air. “This is so ridiculously hot.” Eliot heard him take a swig from the water bottle.

“Yes, I taught Woolf.”

“Did you see it coming? At all, I mean? Did you ever get the sense she might . . .”

“Might what?”

“Go ballistic,” said the kid. “Kill a whole town. I don’t mean to insult your observation skills, which are, clearly, very good. I just wonder how you can miss something like that. You know? It wasn’t just you. It was everyone. We’re supposed to know people.”

“There’s a risk in training anyone. In Woolf’s case, her potential seemed to justify it.” He shrugged, although there was no one to see him. “We were wrong.”

“I never met her. She’d left by the time I started.” He coughed. “She’d been kicked out, I mean. Banished. Whatever. It’s really dusty. The wind . . . I think I can see the refinery.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

The kid laughed, which turned into another cough. “Seriously, you’re making me nervous for no reason. There’s nobody in here.”

Eliot said nothing.

“Do you know what I do? In the organization? I’m in Digital. Web services. You know?”

“Not really.”

“You should. This is where everything is going. Let me tell you about it. Bring you up to speed.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Well, don’t humor me. I don’t care. I’m just offering you an inside look at what Yeats himself has called, quote, the greatest attack vector since print, end quote.”

“Fine.”

“The organization is changing, Eliot. It’s not newspapers and TV anymore. That stuff is old school. Obsolete. And you older guys, if you don’t watch out, you’ll be obsolete with it. You don’t want to be obsolete, do you?”

“No.”

“No. So let me help you out.” The kid panted awhile. “The key to the Web is it’s interactive. That’s the difference. Online, someone visits your site, you can have a little poll there. It says, ‘Hey, what do you think about the tax cuts?’ And people click and segment themselves. First advantage right there. You’re not just proselytizing, speaking into the void. You’re getting data back. But here’s the really clever part. Your site isn’t static. It’s dynamically generated. Do you know what that means?”