Failed State

by Christopher Brown

  There were the notebooks, full of casual jottings, plans for her nerdy war games, dreams, scribbles of ideas big and small, field notes from garden and town, plans for real war, or at least direct action. All of them treated by their discoverers as presumptive profundities, even the entries detailing when she had composted her rooftop garden. Or the List, the one with her Nine Rules.

  And then there was the book.

  WE THE CREATURES was the title, which they always wrote in all caps, the way she had pounded it out on the typewriter she used, just like the ones at the archive.

  They called it a novel, but Donny had read it, and didn’t think so. It was something new, something that mixed fiction and nonfiction, fact and fantasia. Manual for a new alchemy, green Anthropocene brujería, a utopian conjuring. The chapters were almost like meditations, but they had story, anecdotes that started to accrete into an even bigger story as you read them. One that, when it settled in and took root in your brain, started to spin another story, a story about the whole world.

  Donny thought it was all pretty crazy. He was pretty sure his cynicism about it was part of the reason they had banished him. Pretty soon he started seeing people hawking self-published copies on the street corners. Friends started asking him if he’d read it. The way he remembered friends in the old days asked him if he had asked the lord for forgiveness. Then he remembered how Joyce used to say the only way you can really change people’s behavior is with a new religion or an old cult.

  There was a picture of Maxine Price on the wall of the shed where they were letting Heather stay. The photo presented her at her most charismatic, backlit by the sun in a way that almost gave her a halo. Below the photo was a plaque, with one of her rules:

  5. You can take from nature, but you must give back in equal measure.

  This was not the only reason the shed reminded Donny of a chapel. From the outside, it just looked like a garden shed, albeit with a kind of high roof. Inside, it opened up and filled with light from the windows. No stained glass, just a view of the water on one side and the prairie on the other. On the wall hung relics of things that had died. The bones of animals, the wood of ancient trees, dried flowers, a giant shell washed in from the deep sea.

  Below the wall, it was more like a florist’s shop—a wide wooden table with metal instruments, test kits, and cuttings of plants. On a plastic cutting board in the center was a section of green stalk from which extruded a crown of red tendrils coated with some snotty film.

  “What kind of mutant is that?” said Donny.

  “That’s a native, actually,” said Heather. “A landrace. Sierra Mixe corn, from southern Mexico. Most of it was razed in the wars, but we found some seeds.”

  She sat in a simple wooden chair opposite him, wearing work pants, a plain black T-shirt, and ropers. Her hair was damped with sweat and matted from the ball cap that she now held in her hands, which were worn and dirty, with thick black under the nails. She seemed happy to discuss the work, even as she looked annoyed that he was the one she had to talk to.

  “But what are those things sticking out of the side?” said Donny, looking back at the specimen like he was afraid it might leap from the table and attach to his face.

  “Roots. This is a maize that extracts its nitrogen from the air. An adaptation to crummy soils. Of which we have plenty. We’ve already had some luck developing hybrids. It’s what we’re planting today.”

  She pointed at the window. A crew was working a fresh-plowed field with hand tools.

  “Supposed to rain tonight,” she said. “Hopefully it will give them a nice kick-start.”

  “What are those kids doing?” asked Donny, pointing farther in the distance, in the direction of the river.

  “Testing water and counting birds,” said Heather.

  “How’s the water?”

  “The water in the channel is nasty. The water in the springs is better. Mostly they use rainwater here, though. Want some?”

  She poured them each a glass from a nearby pitcher. The pitcher was made from clay, the glasses from the bottom halves of old soda bottles.

  “Thanks,” said Donny, savoring the drink. “I thought maybe you were training them to pollinate the New Corn.”

  “We don’t need to do that.”

  “Is it true they’re designing tiny drones to replace the bees?”

  “I don’t know. Probably, but that’s not the solution. The solution is to help nature fix itself. So we improved on Mom’s design. Crossed it with some of these wild grains, and came up with a self-pollinating varietal.”

  Donny processed that. “So you won’t need an army of people to get it to grow?”

  “Yes, and it’s hardier all the way around.”

  “And you’re just giving it away?”

  “We will once we know it’s ready to share. That’s the real reason you’re here. Even if you didn’t know it.”

  “I’m here because your dad wants you home and he knew I could help make that happen.” It was basically true, but he was beginning to understand more clearly what Lecker’s real agenda was.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” said Heather.

  “I guess you’d rather talk about her,” said Donny, nodding at the picture of Maxine Price on the wall.

  “She’s the reason I dropped out of Rice,” said Heather. “I wanted to help.”

  “I saw her in person once.”

  “Really?” said Heather. It was like telling some kid you saw a long-dead rock star at their peak.

  “Back home, in Houston.”

  “Not with my dad.”

  “Definitely not,” said Donny. “Though he’s more open-minded than you give him credit for, or at least was back then. But no, he was not a fan. I went with my girlfriend at the time, who was. And still is. You know Joyce. We met at your parents’ house that one night.”

  “She’s more memorable than you. I even took her class.”

  “The one on how the richer people are the more they live like nomads?”

  Heather nodded. “I guess you weren’t converted the way Joyce was.”

  Donny shrugged. “I don’t know. She was definitely better than the alternative, but I’m just not much of a joiner. I got tagged anyway. Lost my job just for going to that dang rally. Your dad knows all about it.”

  She nodded. “He used to tell me I was going to cost him his job, when I was in school.”

  “I’m sure you gave it your best shot. Which reminds me. He gave me something to give you.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Come on,” said Donny. He opened his briefcase and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. “Check this out,” he said, holding up a bar of chocolate. Not just any chocolate. A Gold Bar, from the Johnson Head, the super-luxury artisanal English stuff made from rare small-batch cacao in British Honduras. Fair trade it was not.

  You could see her suck in the smile.

  “I don’t want that,” she said. “We have better stuff here.”

  “Really?” said Donny.

  “Do you know how they make that?”

  “No idea. I just know your dad said this was your mom’s favorite as well as yours.”

  He slid it across the table.

  “No thanks,” she said. Her look turned mean.

  “I know you didn’t do it, Heather. Your dad doesn’t think so either. You’re too much like her. You’re like who she really wanted to be. Healing the damage your forebears did with science and privilege.”

  “How would you know,” said Heather, talking down to him now. “I just realized, you’re the guy that used to have those cheesy billboards. ‘I fought the law and you won’?”

  “I know,” said Donny, sampling the chocolate. “But it worked. I was able to help a lot of people. Some of whom are here now, a lot freer than they were.”

  “If you’re so woke, why are you helping Lecker?”

  “Honestly? Because I have bills to pay. I spent the better part of a decad
e helping the cause, and all I have to show for it are unpaid debts and stopped watches. The other reason is this is the only way I could get to see you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I thought maybe we could help each other.”

  “I don’t need any help. Not from some sleazy lawyer.”

  “I know what you want: that money old Dr. Lecker is hoarding. Money your mom and granddad said is yours. Money you can use to advance the cause. And from what I see, it’s a cause worth investing in.”

  “You don’t know anything. And what I know is you’re here working for them, and everything you say is a trick.”

  “I’m here to defend you, Heather. You are my client. You call the shots. I have a way we can break the money loose. Different than the craziness they are pursuing in the Tributary, which is a great idea but will never work.”

  “I get it,” said Heather. “You think I’m going to write you a big check.”

  “No, Heather,” said Donny, playing a hunch. “I think you’re going to tell me where Slider is.”

  34

  “Slider’s dead,” said Heather quickly.

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” said Donny.

  “It’s true,” she said. “And it’s my fault.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He died trying to rescue me.”

  “That’s not what the newspapers said. They said he died trying to arrest you. Got shot by your dad’s bodyguards.”

  “That’s what they thought. But he was killed by friendly fire. People from here, assigned to kill him for what the people that run this place call treason.”

  “Treason? I thought he was a loyal soldier for the cause.”

  “He was. But they said he had gotten too violent. Taken actions that put the community in a bad light.”

  “Too violent for this crowd? I thought that was a job requirement.”

  “It was, when they needed it. But they don’t want their wild boys in the house anymore.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The old ladies who run the Council. They decided that they need to keep men of fighting age segregated. The most violent of the fighters were expelled. In Slider’s case, he did something that made them decide he needed to be killed.”

  “What was that?”

  “The last big job he did before they came for me. But I don’t know what it was, or what went down. He couldn’t tell me before he left, and when he got back he was even more secretive about it.”

  “How long was he gone that time?”

  “About ten days.”

  “Do you know who he was working with? Who else was on the team?”

  Heather shook her head.

  “I suppose your relationship with him was also a secret.”

  “Kind of,” she said. “Not something the people he worked with needed to know about. Some of our friends in Houston knew. But it wasn’t exclusive, and we all have pretty open connections in our network.”

  “I bet. But you’re telling me this was a special enough connection that he wanted to volunteer for a kidnapping squad to come rescue you from his own bosses.”

  She reddened.

  “Nothing gets young love amped up like a little danger,” said Donny.

  Donny tried to dodge the glove she threw at his face, but Heather was too fast. “He died for me, you fucking shyster. No wonder Dad talked about you that way.”

  Donny could imagine Lou trying to use his bad example to teach kids valuable lessons at the dinner table.

  “Tell me the real story, and I really will get you out of here,” said Donny.

  “What if I don’t want to leave?” said Heather.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Donny.

  But the truth was, he didn’t believe that either.

  35

  Donny found a pedicab that would take him close enough to Joyce’s place that he was unlikely to encounter any wildlife. The cab rode uptown, along Magazine Street, which was still paved, and still aboveground, but most of the old shops and restaurants were abandoned. The cabbie explained that there wasn’t much infrastructure past the Garden District, except around the college campuses that still had their own generators, and so the places that were dark, most of which also had no water, were left to the more intrepid resettlers.

  The place where she let Donny off was near the end of Magazine Street. To the north was Audubon Park, which had always been verdant, but now was untamed, a literal urban jungle. You could see paths leading back in there still, where once there had been paving, but even that had mostly been overtaken by foliage. The sound of the birds was intense, even in afternoon, like a chorus of cackling little dinosaurs. The smell of spring was more intense, an acrid intoxication of exotic pollens.

  In the other direction was the river. And on the stretch of land between Magazine and the river was the site of the old zoo. There was even a sign still there, but the only letter you could see through the vines that covered it was one fungal-looking O. The cabbie pointed at a cluster of buildings back there, behind the trees, and said that’s where she stays.

  Donny said how do I get back, and the cabbie said there should be a bike around to borrow, and if not you can walk up through the park to the streetcar. Should be fine as long as you get going before the sun starts to set.

  What happens then? asked Donny. She laughed and then did the weirdest meow-meow cat sound he had ever heard.

  Donny tried to laugh with her, then tried to pay her, but she said it’s free. So he gave her a business card and said let me know if you ever need help. No thanks, she said, handing the card back.

  He hadn’t walked far before he heard the music coming from the direction of the buildings. He recognized the song. An old song Joyce liked to play that always put him to sleep or made him cry.

  He followed the sound, down an overgrown but well-used and not quite feral walkway. There were pomegranates growing along both sides, and flowering vines in the trellis above. At the end, he saw them, there on the porch of one of the buildings.

  Saw her, sitting in the afternoon light playing her old guitar for two companions.

  “Hey, Joyce,” said Donny.

  All three of them looked.

  “Hello, Donny,” said Joyce, a tired smile on her face. “How did you find me?”

  “Everybody around here seems to know who the real boss is, and where she can be found.”

  “We don’t do bosses here,” she said.

  “If you say so. Percy told me where I could find you. And then I heard the song. Bach, right? I remember you used to play that one when you were sad.”

  “I play it a lot, now. Trying to get it right. And it’s not by Bach. He did a version, and his wife, Anna Magdalena, did some better versions, but it was already an old song by then. One that had traveled a long way, across time and space. I call it the Sara Band.”

  “Still making shit up as you go along,” said Donny.

  She smiled. “You would know. Come on up and visit with us,” she said. “Meet Patricia and Sig.”

  Donny walked up the steps. Patricia was a white lady about his and Joyce’s age, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair on the edge of unkempt and wire-framed glasses, an old hardback book under her arm. Donny already knew Sig. He was a little older than the last time they had been together. But still young, small but strong, with long black hair and tanned skin that looked like some race of man from the ancient past or the far future. He dressed simply, in T-shirt, jeans, and generic sneakers, but he had a weird gravity, at the same time that he was as close to caveman as you would ever meet this early in the third millennium.

  “Sig and I go way back,” said Donny, greeting his old client. “I thought you were in Russia.”

  “They kicked him out for trying to start a revolution,” said Joyce.

  “And they might arrest him if they find him in the US,” said Donny.

  “You told me here was okay,” said Sig.


  “It is. Wrote it into your early release deal, so you can settle right back in. Looks like you already did.”

  “I’m not staying long.” The way he looked at him was kind of like the way a wild animal looks at you in the woods.

  “I guess that’s why they don’t make you stay out there with the other fighting-age men.”

  “We make an exception for Sig,” said Joyce. “He’s helping me on a special project. Patricia has lived here longer than me.” Joyce hadn’t got up to greet him, and kept quietly playing as they spoke.

  “Sit down,” she said, pointing with her chin.

  Donny did, there on the top step. There were no other chairs.

  “You’ve gotten a lot better,” said Donny, meaning her guitar playing.

  “I have a more attentive audience now,” she said. “And more life lived to put into it.”

  Donny nodded. And for once, he shut up and listened.

  It was like the blues, but a different blues, one that knew math, and the sound that comes from minarets, and the sounds of the horses of European wars. He could also hear the sound of more recent wars, in the way she played it.

  “That’s really beautiful,” he said when she was done.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m gonna go get us some dinner,” said Sig. When he stood, Donny noticed the knife for the first time, hanging from his belt. Maybe because he put his hand on it when he said that, as if the knife was what he was going to use to get it.

  “Is this still a zoo?” said Donny.

  Joyce looked at him. In the outdoor light, he noticed she had more gray than him. She had earned it.

  “We don’t cage any animals here anymore, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

  “What do you do, Patricia?”

  “I’m a writer,” she said.

  Whenever Donny heard someone say that, it sounded more like a pose than a job.