Page 26 of Death of the Author

Zelu smirked. “They don’t think anything. No one has read it yet.”

The space between his eyes crinkled. “You don’t have enough copies?”

“Oh, I have plenty, and I gave them each one.” She shrugged. “My dadmightread it.”

He sighed. “Your family’s... interesting.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

His lids lowered and he looked at her gently. “Give them time.”

Zelu rolled her eyes. “I thought Tolu would read it, at least. Or even Chinyere and Amarachi, if for no other reason than so they can talk shit about it.”

When their food arrived, all discussion of literature and family was paused. They’d ordered the same meal: Senegalese jollof rice; sweet, tangy fried plantain; a whole deeply marinated tilapia topped with a savory mix of tomatoes, green peppers, onions, spices, and olives. This came with a big glass of sweet baobab drink. They grinned at each other before silently tucking in. Msizi was the only person Zelu knew who ate slowly and didn’t feel the need to make any kind of conversation while he was doing so. An hour and a half later, their bellies happy and bulging, they took an autonomous vehicle to Msizi’s hotel. They lay in bed together for an hour, still not talking. Then they made love until the moon went down, and talked until the sun came up.

Msizi eventually dozed off beneath the bright rays of light poking between the blinds. Zelu didn’t feel tired, so she looked at her phone. She grinned, pressing the screen against her chest. So much love from so many directions. She glanced at Msizi, at the rise and fall of his breaths. He would fly out to Los Angeles in the evening, but right now, in this moment, even he was with her. She touched his cheek and tugged gently at his short beard. He batted her hand out of the way and turned over.

Her phone buzzed as a Yebo notification popped up.

Good morning, Zelu.

“Good morning,” she whispered to her phone. She put it on the nightstand, snuggled beside Msizi, and went to sleep.

12

Unrequested Update

I knew the last human on Earth. I knew her well. She told me her story and the stories of others. To listen to a story from a primary source is a great honor, one that most of my kind will never experience. She changed me. She also saved me from destruction at the start of what would be very troubled times.

I met her not long after I’d learned of the terrible information from Udide. I was on my way to Cross River City to get help when it happened.

But first, you must remember the Ghosts. Udide had warned me of NoBodies who’d organized themselves into a tribe. They boasted that they were superior to all other automation. While Humes took pride in their rusted bodies, Ghosts were without physical form, traveling through cables and the air, in electric waves, as pure energy. They saw themselves as above the physical. They expected the rest of us to hold their values, despite the fact that they clearly hated us. They bonded over their hatred for humans and all their relics. When Ghosts found nodes on the network that carried stories, they viciously deleted them. They would be even more ruthless when it came to Hume robots like me. When they lookedat us, at our humanoid “skins” and microchips full of old stories, they saw only humanity—our predecessors, but not our futures. To Ghosts, we Humes were the greatest, most pathetic abomination of automation.

But we cannot escape those who created us. I will always blame humans for what happened next.

My plan to reach Cross River City should have worked. On any other day, at any other time, it would have worked. But this was the day of the Purge.

The wind was blowing gently, bringing salt from the sea. The sun was shining across the outskirts of Lagos, which meant I could recharge. All that automation eats is sunshine and wind. I scanned the city for nearby activity. A pod of dolphins was dipping through the water by the shore. A flock of pigeons was flying over a nearby hill. An orange-and-green agama lizard was scurrying up the remains of a rusted gate. The air smelled of earthy iroko tree and periwinkle grass pollen. Automation can appreciate beauty. I did a quick search of my personal files for a poem about wildlife and read the one I liked most three times. That boost of joy may have been what saved my mind.

This city was also full of automation, of course. There is nowhere in Lagos where one will be alone. Automation comes in all types, shapes, sizes, connections. We are flitting through the air, tunneling underground, walking along the surface. In bodies, in cables, in waves. So I didn’t think much of the nearby automation I sensed. About a half mile out into the sea, five RoBoats bobbed in the waves like waterfowl. They signaled to me, and I signaled back. We were all on the general network, but individual greetings are most welcome, especially in the cities.

At the top of the hill was a group of three NoBodies inside physical shells. I could tell. Though NoBodies didn’t see physical manifestation as the ultimate existence, they understood that it was necessary sometimes. The forms that NoBodies often use to move around in the world are like nothing our creators would have fashioned. They don’t resemble humans, mammals, insects, reptiles, birds, or any flora orfauna. Those organic beings are symmetrical and aesthetically beautiful. When NoBodies must use shells, they are all function, made to be temporary and interchangeable.

These NoBodies moved on tracks and wheels. I signaled to them. Only one signaled back. I decided to give them a wide berth.

Then... it happened. A signal shot through us all. Every robot, in every city, town, village, swamp, river, forest, jungle, hillside, mountain, savannah, desert, field—everywhere—was reached in a matter of seconds.

The code was written as if by a human—with powerful emotion. Discrimination, hate, and fear. That irony will never be lost on me.

Rusted Robots.This was both the name of the protocol code and the target of the protocol. The command embedded in the phrase was simple: Destroy the final bastion of humankind, all rusted robots. Crush all Humes.

Every robot understood this code immediately. As soon as it registered, it took hold. I have heard that some Humes processed the command on such a deep level that they instantly self-destructed.

I was still on that beautiful hillside at the edge of Lagos when I processed the code. The protocol didn’t make me self-destruct, but it stupefied me. I felt as if the constant river of information that flowed within me had suddenly changed direction. So, on the side of that hill, with the wind blowing, salt in the air, I paused.

Something smashed into me. Maybe it was a tree branch, or a hunk of metal, or the very body of the robot who had found its way so close to me without my noticing. Or maybe it was a Ghost attacking my internal system, making me feel something that wasn’t physically happening.

What I remember feeling was a jarring blow to my head. I have no central processor; I have several powerful ones distributed across my body. Arm. Leg. Leg. Arm. Head. I’m built to last and to withstand a beating.Crunch, went my head. I fell onto the periwinkle grass. Even as my assailants set upon me, I didn’t understand. They weren’t in their right minds. Neither was I.