The Tyrant's Tomb

and it did not involve placing her boot in my face.
“I’m okay,” I said. One godly skill had not abandoned me: lying.
“You need medical attention,” Reyna said. “Your face is a horror show.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got supplies,” Meg announced.
She rummaged through the pouches of her gardening belt. I was terrified
she might try to patch my face with flowering bougainvillea, but instead she
pulled out tape, gauze, and alcohol wipes. I supposed her time with Pranjal
had taught her more than just how to use a cheese grater.
She fussed over my face, then checked me and Reyna for any especially
deep cuts and punctures. We had plenty. Soon all three of us looked like
refugees from George Washington’s camp at Valley Forge. We could have
spent the whole afternoon bandaging each other, but we didn’t have that
much time.
Meg turned to regard the shipping container. She still had a stubborn
geranium stuck in her hair. Her tattered dress rippled around her like shreds
of seaweed.
“What is that thing?” she wondered. “What’s it doing up here, and why
does it smell like roses?”
Good questions.
Judging scale and distance on the tower was difficult. Tucked against the
girders, the shipping container looked close and small, but it was probably a
full city block away from us, and larger than Marlon Brando’s personal
trailer on the set of The Godfather. (Wow, where did that memory come
from? Crazy times.) Installing that huge red box on Sutro Tower would have
been a massive undertaking. Then again, the Triumvirate had enough cash to
purchase fifty luxury yachts, so they could probably afford a few cargo
helicopters.
The bigger question was why?
From the sides of the container, glimmering bronze and gold cables
snaked outward, weaving around the pylon and crossbeams like grounding
wires, connecting to satellite dishes, cellular arrays, and power boxes. Was
there some sort of monitoring station inside? The world’s most expensive
hothouse for roses? Or perhaps the most elaborate scheme ever to steal
premium cable-TV channels.
The closest end of the box was fitted with cargo doors, the vertical
locking rods laced with rows of heavy chains. Whatever was inside was