Tyrannia by Alan Deniro Read Free Book Online

money.
    “Well, not really . . . I mean, it has a character named Mick Solon, but he’s not the same . . .”
    “Not the same?”
    “He’s a bit . . . mellower.”
    “Christ, Roger. What am I supposed to do with this? Will you please tell me what the fuck it’s about?”
    “It’s about relationships,” he said. He sounded embarrassed, and a bit surly. “There’s a failing marriage. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any terrorists in it? But, who the fuck cares. You’re my agent. I want you to fucking assess it and sell it. Maybe I could go over it again, add a political subplot, a liberal suicide bomber? Maybe one of the characters has an affair with a sultan’s daughter, who’s actually been programmed to kill the Republican senator to make sure tax cuts don’t go through, because the taxes are going to fund restoration of the Caliphate?”
    “I don’t know, Roger. It sounds kind of retro. Stuck in the past?” The Republicans shattered with the Constitution, like all else, like every other party, every other public interest.
    “Well, it is set in the past. I’m just thinking out loud here. Look, you’re my employee.”
    “Contractor.”
    “Whatever. Just transcribe the manuscript and figure out what to do with it.”
    “Fine.” She hung up on him. Then she called the front desk. She was going to work harder for this twenty-five percent cut than she ever had in her life.
    “Security detail, please. I need to go to Kinko’s.”
    She met the concierge in the front lobby. He was in urban camo and had a silver bag slung over his shoulder like a purse. She didn’t want to know what he had in there. He was pretty much a kid. He must have thought she was ancient, and he knew he was trying not to stare at the cloverleaf radiation burn on her cheek.
    “All right, ma’am,” he said, unholstering his sword and turning its crank to power it up. Ma’am. “Follow me.”
    They put on their masks. She crossed her arms and followed him out the door. He walked a few paces in front of her in the street. The Kinko’s was only two blocks away, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She clutched the notebook close to her chest. It was dusk, and the clouds cast shadows over the rowhouses of Queens, in one of the few sustainable neighborhoods left in the old boroughs. Glittering dust swirled around her feet. She almost slipped on the gangplank and a few bicycles nearly ran her over, but the concierge barked at one of the cyclists as he passed and the other that followed got the message. From the Starbucks on the corner of Vine and Polk, a teenage girl watched them pass. The Starbucks window was about a foot thick. She must have been a viceroy’s daughter, or a sphere-of-influence envoy, right off the dirigible from China. The agent felt sorry for her, for having to live in this shithole. Lord Manhattan and his revolutionary army could only survive because of the influx of humanitarian aid from Africa and Asia, most of which he kept. And the tourism—plenty of brisk trade to the vaporized sites.
    “We’re here,” the concierge said, moving toward the storefront, looking up at the sky for any security breaches. The gangplank was short by about two feet, so the agent did her best to pick through the mud, coal, and fishbones in front of the Kinko’s. Her shoes weren’t the best. The concierge gave her a hand. His arm was like a steel beam that she gripped tightly.
    “Thank you,” she said. He opened the door. She was paying for that courtesy, too.
    When she went into the door, she saw that the couriers were waiting for her there, next to the scanners. There was no point in running.
    They let her scan the documents and send them to Amar, though. She was surprised about that. But they also said that an equal measure deserved equal measure. The courier she tasered was not there. The concierge thought about protecting the agent, but he was outnumbered five to one, and the couriers had these wiry, muscular