The Dead Lands by Benjamin Percy

with the beard he cannot grow. His eyes appear glazed—perhaps from sex, the heat, the glass of brown liquor resting at the edge of the tub.
    Lewis clears his throat and says, in the pause that follows, “You demanded my audience.”
    Thomas blearily observes him, then startles to attention. “Lewis.” Waves of water slosh when he lifts his arms in greeting. “I’m so glad to see you, so glad you could come.”
    “I didn’t have a choice.”
    Thomas dunks his head and works the soap from his hair and then rises sputtering. His face appears to sulk even when he smiles. A trail of gold hair drops from his belly button to his groin—otherwise his skin is as bare as an infant’s, maybe shaved. “Yes, well, you know how you are.”
    “Reluctant.”
    “Always busy. Always working. You never have time for old friends.” He turns to Vincent, who smiles at him curiously, his sponge oozing soap down his thigh. “Go away. Though I may call for you later.”
    Vincent climbs from the bath and wraps himself in a robe and splashes through the puddles on the floor on his way out. Thomas watches him go before eeling his way to the head of the tub, hooking one arm over the edge. On the ledge rests a tray piled high with baked grubs. He snatches one, pops it in his mouth.
    “There is no life without water, Thomas. That is the immutable law of the universe.”
    Thomas suckles the grub. “What are you getting at?”
    “Do you know how upset people would be if they knew you were taking baths?”
    Thomas makes a dismissive gesture, then lets the beak of the grub slip from his lips. It drops to the tray with a tick . “We recycle the water. Everything here will be bucketed into the gardens.”
    “How generous of you.”
    His eyes narrow and his voice drops to a whisper. “So have you done it?”
    “No.”
    “Have you even tried?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s a lie. If you can build an owl, you can build a gun. You can build me whatever I ask for.”
    Thomas is right. Lewis is lying. He has not tried and he will not try. Three months ago, when someone began painting protest slogans across buildings, when a brick crashed through one of the Dome’s windows, when an effigy of the mayor was found floating in the sewage canal, Thomas approached Lewis about the possibility of black powder, of guns. Their forebears had thought it unwise, in such a contained community, to make it any easier to kill what few people remained in the world. And in the second amendment to their constitution, all rifles and pistols were destroyed. When Lewis reminded him of this, Thomas raised an open hand. “I know. I know what they said. But times are different. They had water . I need to be able to better control my people.”
    Thomas has never appeared physically threatening, but his mind has a shrewd capability for violence. Even when they were children, he knew how to hurt, placing a hand to the chests of those who wanted to be with him most, saying, “You may not play with me.” Now Lewis sees a similar sharpness in his expression, a barely controlled fury that twitches the corners of his mouth. “You wouldn’t want to see your precious museum closed, would you? Then all the knowledge would be left to those who know what to do with it. Men like us. The less people know, the better off they are.”
    “The better off you are, you mean.” Knowledge is a threat. Lewis is a threat. It isn’t the first time Thomas has mentioned closing the museum. There was even a motion to do so last month during a city council meeting—so that the space might be occupied, its many treasures repurposed—but it was struck down.
    Thomas says, “You are deeply unpleasant, you know that?”
    “Closing the museum is an empty threat. People would riot. It’s one of their only pleasures.”
    “It’s a shadowy junk pile, a haunted house. You’re the only one who takes pleasure in it.” Thomas is smiling, but he clenches his jaw as if to keep himself from swallowing