The Tangleroot Palace

by Marjorie Liu

  “You have to stop this,” Alexander says.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” says the puker. “These creatures are government property and this is our experiment. You’re a guest here, Mr. Lutheran. I suggest you act like one and stay out of the way.”

  “A guest?” Alexander feels Richard and Dr. Reynolds close against his back. “RanTech designed these worms. Until the hand-over is official, their well-being is our business, and they are clearly unwell—due to your mismanagement, I assume.”

  “I won’t warn you again.” The puker is angry. “The government paid a high price—”

  “And having paid that price, what will your superiors say when they discover there is nothing left of their experiment but a few dozen corpses? Will you impress them with a barrel full of remains? Lovely. Be my guest. Go right ahead.”

  “Look,” says a government scientist. “There was no other way to move their bodies. They’re too large and the kill-gas is too slow. This way, we manage everything at once. It’s not like you can’t make more. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “My God,” Alexander hears Richard whisper. Alexander wonders if God plays the same game: a disinterested observer watching His creations in their sewer-world, watching death and malice and love and conception, waiting to see which side will win, waiting to see if there will be any side, or just clumps of blood and flesh, waiting at the very end of a failed experiment on a tiny little septic tank of a world.

  No, Alexander thinks. No, we are more than that.

  Behind the government scientists is a valve; if turned, it will release sludge into the trench below. Experiments have shown that the worms prefer sludge to flesh—bathe them in it, let them wallow in shit, and they will stop consuming each other.

  Alexander strides forward. The puker does not back away. He meets Alexander with arms outstretched, blocking the path.

  “Not this time,” he says, as though that is enough, as though his word is law.

  The government scientists are smarter; they know what is behind them and can guess what Alexander plans to do. One of them says, “He’s going to stop the experiment! Don’t let him near that valve.”

  Dr. Reynolds shouts at them. Alexander cannot understand what she says because his ears are roaring, his head buzzing with rage. The worms are writhing in blood and it is another red-lit room—red with fluid, dark and dirty—and he must stop this, he must stop this torture because the worms cannot stop it for themselves.

  Alexander is lean and strong. He pushes the puker aside, but the man is ready for him and has his own rage, his own bruised pride. The puker strikes Alexander hard in the gut, a sharp thrust. Alexander staggers backward.

  Back into Richard, who has followed close to help.

  Alexander hears a gasp, a startled cry. He turns in time to see Richard teeter on the narrow ledge, flail and swing and fall. He does not hit concrete. He hits worm.

  Alexander cannot see Richard’s face; he lands facedown, limbs entangled in shifting flesh. Richard tries to stand but the worms are too large. All he can do is straddle, stay on top, struggle to keep from slipping into crushing darkness.

  It is the worst kind of Hell Alexander can imagine, but he does not hesitate. He jumps into the trench. Alexander lands hard but the worms cushion his fall—a grotesque trampoline made of firm flesh. He lunges forward, slithering and bouncing over thrashing bodies, thick as oaks. The worms are slippery, greased with blood and shit. Alexander swallows filth. His eyes burn.

  Richard sees him. There is a moment when Alexander imagines something more than fear on the man’s face—a shadow beneath the terror and disgust that looks like concern. And then a tail rises up and slams into Richard’s head.

  Richard disappears.

  Alexander fights. His life narrows down to one thin line and he pulls his soul over this line, hand over hand, slamming fists into hard bodies, into searching mouths, razing his skin on sharp lips while his lungs fill with the hot stench of shit and blood, shit and blood in his mouth, on his tongue, gritty and slimy and metallic. He fights and fights, the worms tearing open his suit, crushing him between their surging bodies, squeezing him like a lemon. Ribs crack, but he pushes forward, slithering. He glimpses a white suit.

  Alexander screams as he wrenches his torso against undulating muscle. His broken ribs shift against skin. The worms move, pull apart, and Alexander dives to the ground, scrabbling on all fours until he reaches Richard.

  Richard is curled tight, his chin tucked against his chest, hands over his head. The suit around his upper thigh is ripped. Alexander sees bone.

  Alexander covers Richard with his body, placing his hands against Richard’s filthy hair, the bare skin of his neck. Richard turns his head just a fraction; his eyes are bloodshot, terrible.

  “Get out of here,” he says, and Alexander can hear the desperation in his voice, the despair.

  “No,” Alexander mouths, because he cannot make his lungs work past the pain in his ribs. A worm rolls over his legs and Alexander swallows a cry.

  “Please,” Richard begs.

  Alexander says nothing. He does not have the strength to stand, to fight. Everything he had, he has given in his battle to reach Richard. All he can do now is curl around the body beneath him and hold on tight. He presses his cheek against Richard’s hair. He closes his eyes.

  The worms come up hard against his back, their mouths seeking flesh.

  After the accident, the government takes possession of the worms and all associated technology. It does this in a matter of days. Alexander does not fight when Dr. Reynolds gives him the news. He hopes the government has learned a lesson, that it will be more careful in the future. But hope is just that. It does not mean very much.

  “When you stop being optimistic,” Richard says, “the veil that hides the cruelty of things is removed.”

  “Then I’ve never been optimistic,” Alexander says, and pushes down a button. The bed whirs and his upper body propels slowly forward until he can look Richard in the eyes. Richard is in a wheelchair. He wears a hospital gown that does not quite cover the thick bandages wrapped around his upper left leg. Alexander remembers bone every time he looks at that leg, but he is paying for the best regeneration-grafts money can buy, the ones made by his acquaintance, the former herpetologist. Richard will be able to walk again in a year. It will take Alexander much longer. The doctors must repair his organs so he can live beyond the machines knitted into his body.

  Richard rubs his sallow face. Flowers surround him: roses, lilies. They are pleasant substitutes for Alexander’s parents, who have visited their son only twice since he entered the hospital. Alexander does not remember either visit. He was asleep.

  “You’re the most optimistic person I know,” Richard tells him.

  Alexander does not feel like arguing. Instead he says, “Did you see Dr. Reynolds on her way out?”

  “Yes. I thanked her.” Richard looks at his palms, rubs his knuckles with one finger. “I suppose she’s the reason we’re still alive.”

  “Yes,” says Alexander. “I didn’t know she had safety protocols in place. I thought the lockers were full of scientific equipment. Not stun rods.” Stun rods powerful enough to take down an elephant. Powerful enough for the worms. Dr. Reynolds and her team, who jumped into the trench, stunning the worms long enough to drag Richard and Alexander to safety. A miracle. Her resignation email is still in his inbox. He hasn’t had the heart to open it.

  Richard stops looking at his hands. His gaze is bleary, haunted. “You didn’t have a stun rod.”

  But Alexander barely hears him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “I say a lot of things.” But then Richard goes still. “Ah.”

  Alexander finally looks at him. “I always wanted to be Lex Luthor . . . really be him, for real . . . because wherever he is, there’s Superman. And
the world needs something of Superman to exist, even if it takes his worst enemy to draw him out. The world needs someone good.”

  I need someone good, Alexander thinks.

  “He’s a fantasy.”

  “He doesn’t have to be.”

  “Well, he does, actually.” Richard frowns. “But let’s call it a dream of better things. Is that what keeps you going?”

  “People need to be reminded of what they can become, not what they are.”

  Richard sits back. “You’ve chosen a pretty passive way of doing that, haven’t you? Pretending to be a comic book character? Telling yourself that if you play at being that character, the comics will come to life and everyone will have a happy ending?”

  Alexanders flushes with shame. “Richard—”

  “You’re not happy, kid. If you weren’t so high-functioning in every other part of your life, I think you’d have killed yourself by now—just like my son killed himself. He couldn’t face his own life, either.” Richard takes Alexander’s hand, and squeezes it gently. “People don’t care if you’re actually Lex Luthor or if Superman exists. I don’t care. The only person who cares is you. And I guess that’s okay, kid. But,” and Richard leans forward, so close Alexander can feel the heat of his breath on his face, “being in love with something that isn’t real won’t keep your heart from breaking.”

  Alexander swallows hard. He remembers the worms tearing off chunks of his body and wishes that he was back in the sewer, because being eaten alive is easier than telling the truth to this man. Alexander forces himself to look into Richard’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he whispers. “But it’s not just him I’m in love with.”

  Richard goes very still. Alexander listens to the slow thrum of his aching heart.

  “I can’t be something I’m not,” Richard finally says, carefully, gently. “I love you, kid. Just not like that.”

  “I know,” Alexander says, and his eyes feel hot, as hot as his body, burning with shame.

  Richard rests his hand on top of Alexander’s head. He has not shaved since the accident. He has hair again. It has been such a long time, he had forgotten the color.

  “I’m tired of being alone,” Alexander says, throwing away the last of his dignity.

  Richard’s eyes are kind, so kind. He leans in, hugs Alexander, and does not pull away.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re not alone.”

  I wrote “The Last Dignity of Man” in 2004 at the Clarion Writers Workshop in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I had just turned twenty-five, and I don’t know what came over me, except I was a nerd, imagining another nerd, but one with vast wealth and intelligence: someone consumed by desperate loneliness.

  In some ways, this story is far timelier now than it was then, given the rise of corporate billionaires whose companies have inserted their products and services into every part of our lives. More than ever, they’ve become essential—and now, more than ever, the lack of boundaries has become clear, as has the soft power these corporations wield over us. When I hit the “buy” button on my browser, I often joke, “Here I pay fealty to my corporate overlords,” but that’s actually kind of true.

  And so here we have a corporate overlord who wears the costume of a villain, living out a fantasy driven by one desperate hope: that somewhere in the universe . . . there’s a hero who will love him.

  Where the Heart Lives

  When Miss Lindsay finally departed for the world beyond the wood, it meant that Lucy and Barnabus were the only people left to care for her house and land, as well as the fine cemetery she had kept for nearly twenty years outside the little town of Cuzco, Indiana. It was an important job, not just for Lucy and Barnabus, but for others, as well, who for years after would come and go, for rest or sanctuary. Bodies needed homes, after all—whether dead or living.

  Lucy was only seventeen, and had come to the cemetery in the spring, not one month before Miss Lindsay went away. The girl’s father was a cutter at the limestone quarry. Her brothers drove the team that hauled the stones to the masons. The men had no use for a sister, or any reminder of the fairer sex; their mother had run away that previous summer with a fortune-teller, though Lucy’s father insisted his absent wife was off visiting relatives and would return. Eventually.

  When word reached the old cutter that a woman named Miss Lindsay needed a girl to tend house, he made his daughter pack a bag with lunch, her comb, and one good dress from her mother’s closet—then set her on the first wagon heading toward Cuzco. No good-byes, no messages sent ahead. Just chancing on fate that the woman would want his daughter.

  Lucy remembered that wagon ride. Mr. Wiseman, the driver, had been hauling turnips that day, the bulbous roots covered beneath a burlap sheet to keep off the light drizzle: a cool morning, with a sweet breeze. No one on the road except them, and later, one other: an old man who stood at the side of the dirt track outside Cuzco, dressed in threadbare brown clothes, with a thin coat and his white hair slicked down from the rain. Pale eyes. Lost eyes, staring at the green, budding hills as though the woods were where his heart lived.

  In his right hand, he held a round, silver mirror. A discordant sight, flashing and bright; Lucy thought she heard voices in her head when she saw the reflecting glass: whispers like birdsong, teasing and sweet.

  Mr. Wiseman did not wave at the man, but Lucy did, out of politeness and concern. She received no response; as though she were some invisible spirit, or the breeze.

  “Is he sick?” Lucy whispered to Mr. Wiseman.

  “Sick and married,” said the spindly man, in a voice so loud, she winced. He tugged his hat down over his eyes. “Married, with no idea how to let go of the dead.”

  “His wife is gone?” Lucy thought of her mother.

  “Gone, dead. That was Henry Lindsay you saw. Man’s been like that for almost twenty years. Might as well be dead himself.”

  Which answered almost nothing, in Lucy’s mind. “What happened to her?”

  A sly smile touched Mr. Wiseman’s mouth, and he glanced sideways. “Don’t know, quite. But she up and died on their wedding night. I heard he hardly had a chance to touch her.”

  “That’s awful,” Lucy said, not much caring for the look in Mr. Wiseman’s eye, as though there was something funny about the idea. She did not like, either, the other way he suddenly seemed to look at her: as though she could be another fine story, for him.

  She edged sideways on the wagon seat. Mr. Wiseman looked away. “People die, Miss Lucy. But it’s a shame it happened so fast. I even heard said they were going to run away, all fancy. A honeymoon, like they do in the cities.”

  Lucy said nothing. She did not know much about such things. In her experience, there was little to celebrate about being husband and wife. Just hard times, and loss, and anger. A little bit of laughter, if you were lucky. But not often.

  She twisted around, looking back. Henry still stood at the bend in the road, his feet lost in deep grass, soaked and pale and staring at the woods, those smoky green hills rising and falling like the back of some long, fat snake. Her heart ached for him, just a little, though she did not know why. His loss was a contagious thing.

  Honeymoon, she thought, tasting the word and finding it pretty, even though she did not fully appreciate its meaning. And then another word entered her mind, familiar, and she murmured, “Lindsay.”

  Lindsay. The same name as the woman she was going to see. Lucy looked inquiringly at Mr. Wiseman.

  “His sister,” he replied shortly, and smiled. “His very pretty sister, even if she’s getting on in years.” He stopped the wagon and pointed at a narrow dirt path that curled into the woods. “There. Follow that to her house.”

  Lucy hesitated. “Are you certain?”

  “There isn’t a man, woman, or child in this area who doesn’t know where Miss Lindsay lives.” He reached behind him, an
d pulled out a bulging cloth sack. “Here, give this to her. Say it was from Wilbur.”

  Lucy clutched the sack to her stomach. It felt like turnips. She slid off the wagon, feeling lost, but before she could say anything, Mr. Wiseman gave her that same sly smile and said, “Stay on the path, Miss Lucy. Watch for ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” she echoed, alarmed, but he shook the reins, tipped his hat, and his wagon rattled into motion. No good-byes. Lucy watched him go, almost ready to shout his name, to ask that he wait for her. She stayed silent, though, and looked back the way they had come. Home, to her father and brothers.

  Then she turned and stared down the narrow track leading into the woods. It was afternoon, but with the clouds and misting drizzle it could have been twilight before her, a forest of night. Birdsong rattled; again, Lucy thought she heard whispers, voices airy as the wind.

  Ghosts. Or nothing. Just her imagination. Lucy swallowed hard, and walked into shadow, the wet gloom: dense and thick and wild.

  She thought of her mother as she walked. Wondered if she had been this frightened of leaving home, or if it had been too much a relief to unburden herself of husband and children. Then Lucy thought of the old man, Henry Lindsay, and his lost eyes and lost wife and lost wedding night, and wondered if it was the same, except worse—worse, because her mother had chosen to go, worse because her father did not have eyes like that man, or that sorrow. Just anger. So much bitter anger.

  The path curled. Lucy walked fast, stepping light over rocks and vines. In the undergrowth, she heard movement: a blue bird broke loose from the canopy, streaking toward the narrow trail of gray sky; to see it felt like she was watching some desperate escape, as though the leaves on either side of the track were walls, strong as stone and insurmountable. She half expected a hand to reach from the trees and snatch the bird back.