Thunderhead

  “If you’re here to glean me, make it quick,” he says. “And try to make it bloodless, so there’s less to clean up.”

  “Are you so impatient to leave this world?”

  Greyson doesn’t answer the question. Cervantes introduces himself, and sits beside him, but does not yet speak of why he’s here. Perhaps he wants to first see if Greyson Tolliver is worthy of his attention.

  “I’ve done some research on you,” Cervantes said.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “I know that Greyson Tolliver doesn’t exist. I know that your real name is Slayd Bridger, and that you sent a bus off of a bridge.”

  Greyson laughs at that. “So you found my secret dark history,” he says, not bothering to disabuse Cervantes of his erroneous notions. “Good for you.”

  “I know that you were somehow involved in the plot to end Scythes Anastasia and Curie,” Cervantes says, “and that Scythe Constantine is turning the region upside down looking for you.”

  Greyson turns to him for the first time. “So you’re not working for him?”

  “I work for no one,” Cervantes says. “I work for humanity, as all scythes do.” Then he turns to regard the silver tuning fork protruding from the altar before them. “In my native Barcelona, Tonists are much more troublesome than here. They have a tendency to attack scythes, which forces us to glean them. My quota kept getting clogged by Tonists I didn’t want to glean, preventing me from making my own choices. It was one of the reasons why I came to MidMerica—although lately, I’m wondering if it might be a decision I’ll come to regret.”

  “Why are you here, Your Honor? If it’s to glean me, you could have done it by now.”

  “I’m here,” Cervantes finally says, “at the request of Scythe Anastasia.”

  At first Greyson seems pleased by this, but it quickly dissolves into bitterness. It seems so much about him is bitter now. It was never my intent to leave him thus.

  “She’s too busy to check on me herself?”

  “Actually, yes,” Cervantes tells him. “She’s up to her neck in rather serious scythe business,” but he does not offer any details.

  “Well, I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m among people who actually care about my well-being.”

  “I am here to offer you safe passage to Amazonia,” Cervantes tells him. “Apparently, Scythe Anastasia has a friend there who can offer you a far better life than you’ll find as a Tonist.”

  Greyson looks around the chapel as he takes in the offer. Then he responds with the following rhetorical question: “Who says I want to go?”

  This surprises Cervantes. “You mean you’d rather hum your life away here than escape to a place of greater safety?”

  “The intoning is annoying,” Greyson admits, “but I’ve gotten used to the routine. And the people are nice.”

  “Yes, the mindless can be pleasant.”

  “The point is, they make me feel like I belong. I’ve never really felt that. So yes, I can hum their tone, and perform their silly rituals, because it’s worth what I get in return.”

  Cervantes scoffs. “You would live a lie?”

  “Only if it makes me happy.”

  “And does it?”

  Greyson considers it. I consider it as well. I can only live the truth. I wonder if living a lie would improve my emotional configuration.

  “Curate Mendoza believes I can find happiness as one of them. After the terrible things I’ve done—the bus plunge and all—I think it’s worth a try.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?”

  “Nothing,” Greyson says, with more certainty than he had a moment ago. “Consider your mission accomplished.  You promised Scythe Anastasia that you would offer me passage to a place of greater safety. You’ve done that. You can go now.”

  Cervantes stands, and smooths out his robe. “Then good day, Mr. Bridger.”

  Cervantes leaves, making sure to push the heavy wooden doors open with a bang, thereby knocking the curate and Brother McCloud—who are listening at the door—off their feet.

  Once Cervantes is gone, the curate comes in to check on Greyson, who sends him away, assuring him that all is well.

  “I need some time to reflect,” he tells the curate, who smiles.

  “Ah. That’s Tonist code for, ‘Leave me the hell alone,’ ” Curate Mendoza says. “You might also try, ‘I wish to ponder the resonance.’ That works just as well.”

  He leaves Greyson, closing the doors to the chapel. I pull closer focus on Greyson once the curate is gone, hoping to read something in his face. I do not have the ability to read minds. I could develop technology to do so, but by its very nature, it would cross the line into personal intrusion. But at times like this, I wish that I could do more than just observe. I wish I could commune.

  And then Greyson begins to speak. To me.

  “I know you’re watching,” he says to the empty chapel. “I know you’re listening. I know you’ve seen all that’s happened to me these past few months.”

  He pauses. I remain silent. It is not by choice.

  He closes his eyes, which now spill tears, and in desperation reminiscent of prayer, implores me. “Please let me know you’re still there,” he begs. “I need to know you haven’t forgotten me. Please, Thunderhead . . .”

  But his ID still flashes the red U. His unsavory designation carries a minimum four-month term, and I cannot answer him. I am bound by my own laws.

  “Please,” he begs, his tears overwhelming his emotional nanites’ attempt to ease his distress. “Please give me a sign. That’s all I ask. Just a sign that you haven’t abandoned me.”

  And then I realize that, although there is a law against my direct communication with an unsavory, I do not have a law against signs and wonders.

  “Please . . . ,” he begs.

  And so I oblige. I reach out into the electrical grid, and douse the lights. Not just in the chapel, but throughout all of  Wichita. The lights of the city blink for 1.3 seconds. All for the benefit of Greyson Tolliver. To prove beyond a shadow of doubt how much I care, and how heartbroken I would be for all he has suffered, if I had a heart capable of such malfunction.

  But Greyson Tolliver does not know. He does not see . . . because his eyes are shut too tightly to know anything beyond his own anguish.

  Part Six

  ENDURA AND NOD

  * * *

  The Island of the Enduring Heart—also known as Endura—is a towering achievement of human engineering. And when I say human, I mean just that.  While it was constructed using technologies that I pioneered, it was designed and built entirely by human hands, with no interference from me. I suppose it was a matter of pride for the scythedom that it could create such a wondrous place on its own.

  And, as one might expect, it is a monument to the scythedom’s collective ego. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  There is something to be said for the architecture of anima—structures conceived in the furnace of biological passions. They have an audacious sensibility that is breathtaking and impressive, even while being somewhat offensive.

  The floating island, positioned in the Atlantic, southeast of the Sargasso Sea and midway between Africa and the Mericas, is more like a massive vessel than a feature of geography. It has a circular structure, four kilometers in diameter, full of gleaming spires, lush parks, and spectacular water features. From above, it resembles the scythedom’s symbol: the unblinking eye between long, curved blades.

  I have no cameras on Endura. This is intentional—a necessary consequence of the Separation of Scythe and State. While I have buoy-cams stationed throughout the Atlantic, the closest ones are twenty miles from Endura’s shore. I see the island from a distance. Therefore, all I truly know about Endura is what goes in, and what comes out.

  —The Thunderhead

  * * *

  39

  A Predatory View

  Scythes Anastasia and Curie arrived on one of the scythedom’s luxurious
private jets that was richly appointed, and seemed more like a tubular chalet than an airplane.

  “A gift from some aircraft manufacturer,” Scythe Curie explained. “The scythedom even gets its planes for free.”

  Their approach pattern took them in an arc around the floating isle, giving Anastasia a stunning view. Everything that wasn’t gorgeous gardens was glistening crystal and bright titanium-white buildings. There was a huge circular lagoon in the center of the island, open to the sea.  The island’s “eye.” It was the arrival point for submersible transports, and was full of pleasure craft. In the center of the eye, set apart from everything else, was the World Scythe Council complex, connected to the mainland around it by three bridges.

  “It’s even more impressive than the pictures,” Anastasia commented.

  Scythe Curie leaned over to look out of the window, as well. “As many times as I’ve been here, Endura never ceases to amaze me.”

  “How often have you been here?”

  “Perhaps a dozen times. Vacation mostly. It’s a place to come where no one looks at us strangely. No one fears us. We aren’t the immediate center of attention when we walk into a room. In Endura, we get to be human beings again.” Although Scythe Anastasia suspected that even in Endura, the Granddame of Death was a bit of a celebrity.

  The tallest tower, set apart on its own hill, Scythe Curie explained, was the Founder’s Tower. “It’s where you’ll find the Museum of the Scythedom, with the Vault of  Relics and Futures, as well as the very heart for which the island is named.”

  But even more impressive was a series of seven identical towers, evenly spaced around the island’s central eye. One for each of the Grandslayers of the World Scythe Council, their underscythes, and their extensive staffs. The scythedom’s seat of power was a web of bureaucracy, like the Authority Interface, without the benefit of the Thunderhead to make it run smoothly—which meant it made policy at a snail’s pace, and had many months of backlogged items on its docket. Only the most urgent business was moved to the top of the list—business such as the inquest over the MidMerican election. It puffed Anastasia up a bit to know that she had created a brouhaha big enough to demand the immediate attention of the World Scythe Council. And for the council, a three-month wait was like the speed of light.

  “Endura is open to all scythes and their guests,” Scythe Curie told her. “Your family could even live here, if you wanted.”

  Anastasia tried to imagine her parents and Ben in a city of scythes, and it made her brain hurt.

  Upon landing, they were met by Scythe Seneca—Xenocrates’s first underscythe, whose drab maroon robe clashed with the brighter surroundings. Anastasia wondered how many MidMerican scythes Xenocrates had brought with him. His three underscythes were a given. If he took too many, there would be a huge need for apprentices—and that could mean an influx of more new-order scythes.

  “Welcome to the Island of the Enduring Heart,” Seneca said, with his usual lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”

  Like the rest of the island, the hotel was a state-of-the art affair, with polished green malachite floors, a towering crystalline atrium, and a huge service staff to meet their every need.

  “It almost reminds me of the Emerald City,” Anastasia commented, recalling a mortal-age children’s tale.

  “Yes,” said Scythe Curie, with a mischievous grin. “And I once did have my eyes dyed to match my robe.”

  Seneca had them bypass reception, where an impatient line of vacationing scythes had formed, and an irritated scythe in a robe of white feathers raged against the incompetence of the staff for apparently not meeting all his needs fast enough. Some scythes didn’t enjoy not being the immediate center of attention.

  “This way,” said Seneca. “I’ll send a bellhop for your bags.”

  It was here that Anastasia noticed something that had been on the edge of her perception since she had arrived. It was actually brought to her attention by a small child waiting with his family at the elevator.

  He pointed to one of the elevator doors, and turned to his mother. “What does ‘out of order’ mean?”

  “It means that the elevator doesn’t work.”

  But the boy couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept. “How can an elevator not work?”

  His mother had no answer, so gave him a snack instead, which distracted him.

  Now Anastasia thought back to their arrival. How their flight had to circle several times before landing—something to do with the air traffic control system. And she had noticed a scrape on the side of a publicar just outside of the terminal. She had never seen such a thing before. And the line at reception. She had heard one of the clerks saying that their registration computer “is having issues.” How does a computer have issues? In the world that Anastasia knew, things simply worked. The Thunderhead made sure of it. Nothing ever had an “out of order” sign, because the instant something ceased to function, a team was sent to repair it. Nothing was ever out of order long enough to need a sign.

  “What scythe are you?” asked the little boy, but with his accent, it sounded like “sath.” Anastasia pegged him as from the Texas region, although some southern parts of EastMerica had that friendly drawl.

  “I’m Scythe Anastasia.”

  “My uncle’s the Honorable Sath Howard Hughes,” he announced. “So we got immunity! He’s here givin’ a symphonium on how to properly glean with a bowie naff.”

  “Symposium,” his mother corrected quietly.

  “I’ve only used a bowie knife once,” Anastasia told him.

  “You should do it more often,” said the boy. “They’re double-edged at the tip. Very efficient.”

  “Yes,” agreed Scythe Curie. “At least more efficient than these elevators.”

  The boy began to swipe his hand through the air as if he were wielding the knife. “I wanna be a sath one day!” he said, which ensured that he never would be. Unless, that is, the new-order scythes gained control of his region.

  An elevator arrived, and Anastasia made a move to enter, but Scythe Seneca stopped her.

  “That one’s going up,” he said, flatly.

  “We’re not going up?”

  “Obviously not.”

  She looked to Scythe Curie, who didn’t seem at all surprised.

  “So they’re putting us in the basement?”

  Scythe Seneca scoffed at the suggestion, and didn’t dignify it with a response.

  “You forget we’re on a floating island,” Scythe Curie pointed out. “A full third of the city is below the waterline.”

  Their suite was on sublevel seven, and featured a floor-to-ceiling picture window filled with brightly colored tropical fish darting about. It was a stunning view that was partially blocked by a figure standing in front of it.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived!” said Xenocrates, stepping forward to greet them.

  Neither Scythe Curie nor Anastasia was particularly friendly with their former High Blade. Anastasia never quite forgave him for accusing her of killing Scythe Faraday—but the need for diplomacy was greater than her need to hold a personal grudge.

  “We didn’t expect you’d greet us personally, Your Exalted Excellency,” said Scythe Curie.

  He shook their hands in that hearty, two-handed way he had. “Yes, well, it wouldn’t do to have you visit my offices. It would have the appearance of favoritism in the matter of MidMerican High Blade.”

  “But you’re here,” Anastasia pointed out. “Does that mean we have your support for the inquest?”

  Xenocrates sighed. “Alas, I have been asked by Supreme Blade Kahlo to recuse myself. She feels I cannot be impartial—and I’m afraid she’s right.” He took a moment to look at Scythe Curie, and for a moment it seemed he had dropped his own personal defenses. He actually seemed honest. “You and I may not have always seen eye to eye, Marie, but there is no question that Goddard would be a disaster. I truly hope your inquest against him is a success—and although I am no
t allowed to vote, I will be rooting for you.”

  Which, Anastasia noted, would be of no use whatsoever. She did not know the other six Grandslayers, only what Scythe Curie had told her. Two were sympathetic to new-order ideals, two were opposed, and two were wild cards. The inquest could go either way.

  Anastasia turned away from the other scythes, enamored of the view. It was a pleasant distraction from the moment at hand. It would be nice to be like those fish; to have no concerns beyond survival and blending into the school. Being just a part of the whole, rather than an isolated individual in a world turning hostile.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” said Xenocrates, coming up beside her. “Endura serves as a huge artificial reef—and the sea life in a twenty-mile radius is infused with nanites that allow us to control them.” He grabbed a tablet off the wall. “Observe.”

  He tapped a few times, and the colorful fish cleared away like a parting curtain. In a moment the ocean before them was full of jellyfish, deceptively soothing as they undulated beyond the huge window. “You can change your living view to anything you want.” Xenocrates held the tablet out to her. “Here, try it.”

  Anastasia took the tablet, and sent the jellyfish away. Then she found what she was looking for in the menu. A single reef shark approached, then another and another, until the view was full of them. A larger tiger shark punctuated the scene, eying them soullessly through the window as it passed.

  “There,” said Anastasia. “A much more accurate view of our current situation.”

  Grandslayer Xenocrates was not amused. “No one will ever accuse you of optimism, Miss Terranova,” he said—intentionally using her birth name as a backhanded insult.

  He turned away from the shark-filled view. “I will see you both at tomorrow’s inquest. In the meantime, I’ve arranged a private tour of the city for you, and excellent seats for tonight’s opera. Aida, I believe.”

  And although neither Anastasia nor Marie were in the state of mind for such things, they did not decline the offer.