The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  “Were you close?” Loriana asked when the others around them had left. “To Scythe Curie, I mean.”

  Scythe Faraday took a deep breath, but then coughed from the smoke, as the breeze momentarily shifted direction. “We were very old friends,” Faraday told her. “And Scythe Anastasia had been my apprentice. The world will be a much dimmer place without them.”

  While Scythe Curie was legendary, Scythe Anastasia had only recently become a figure of note in the world. How she allowed people to choose the time and nature of their gleaning. How she had forced an inquest. No doubt much would be made of her in the coming years. Sometimes death leads to public oblivion. Other times it can make you larger than life.

  “I’d better go,” Loriana said, “before Munira gets jealous.”

  Faraday offered a faint grin at that. “She is very protective of me,” he admitted. “And I of her.”

  Loriana left to find Director Hilliard. While none of the other Nimbus agents had the fortitude to watch the dead burn, Director Hilliard hadn’t even attended the ceremony. It was unlike her.

  Loriana found her sitting on the beach, far from the others, looking at the sea. There was no light but the flames of the distant pyre, and the wind kept shifting, making it impossible to ignore the smell of smoke. The moon was shining elsewhere in the world, leaving the horizon obscured by darkness. Loriana sat beside her and said nothing at first—because what was there to say that could make this any better? What the director needed right now was company, and no one else was willing to provide it.

  “This is my fault,” Hilliard finally said.

  “You couldn’t have known this would happen,” Loriana told her.

  “I should have anticipated the danger,” she said. “And I should have turned us around the second the boat’s computers lost contact with the Thunderhead.”

  “You made a judgment call,” Loriana said. “If I were you, I probably would have done the same.”

  Still the director was not mollified. “Then you’re just as foolish as I am.”

  And although Loriana often felt foolish—and the butt of other agents’ jokes—she wasn’t feeling that way anymore. In the midst of their current helplessness, she felt empowered. How very strange.

  * * *

  The night was warm, and the sea gentle and inviting. That did nothing to ease Audra Hilliard’s anguish. She had been responsible for many deaths in her time. It was hard to avoid when you’re the head of the Authority Interface. Accidents happened. Unsavories lost their temper during probational meetings, that sort of thing. But in each and every case, the deadish were revived.

  This, however, was different. Audra Hilliard was not a scythe; she was not trained and groomed for the responsibility of ending life. Now she had a newfound respect for those strange robed specters—for to bear such a burden on a daily basis took an extraordinary individual. Either someone with no conscience at all, or someone with a conscience so deep and sturdy that its center could still hold in the face of light extinguished.

  Audra had sent Loriana away, telling her she needed some time alone. Now she could hear the voices on the island behind her—everyone arguing and lamenting and trying to come to terms with their situation. She could smell the stench of the pyre, and she could see yet another body undulating in the waves, about to wash ashore. Of the 977 people she had convinced to make this journey, only 143 had survived. Yes, as Loriana had said, Audra had not known the extent of the danger. But she could not heft the blame on any shoulders but her own.

  Her nanites fought a noble battle to lift her spirits, but they failed, for in this forlorn place, technology held little sway. Had they been anywhere else in the world, the Thunderhead, even in its silence, would have been a safety net, sending intervention to save her from this spiral.

  But, as she had already noted, the night was warm, and the sea inviting….

  So Audra Hilliard decided it was time to accept that invitation.

  * * *

  Director Hilliard’s body was never found. But everyone knew what had happened—because more than one person saw her walk into the ocean.

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” Loriana demanded of a man who had witnessed it.

  He just shrugged. “I thought she was going for a swim.”

  Loriana was horrified by his stupidity. How could he be so naive? How could he not see the strain the poor woman was under? But then, taking one’s own life was something that simply never happened. Yes, people splatted and engaged in reckless behavior that left them deadish on a regular basis—but it was always with the clear understanding that it would be temporary. Only scythes self-gleaned. If this island had been within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence, an ambudrone would have been dispatched the moment she drowned—for everywhere else in the world there were revival centers, even in the most remote places. She would have been spirited off for revival in a matter of minutes.

  Was this what life was like in the mortal age? Feeling the finality of one’s own flesh at every turn? What a terrible way to exist.

  Within minutes of confirming that Director Hilliard was indeed gone, Agent Sykora began to push for control. The following morning, Munira came to give Loriana a briefing on what luggage and other useful debris had washed up on shore—and Sykora was furious.

  “What are you talking to her for?” he asked Munira. “I’m the next in command now that the director is gone. You should be talking to me.”

  And although all of Loriana’s history had trained her to yield to authority, she fought against that nature in herself. “You were fired along with the rest of us, Bob,” she said, thrilling at the insubordination implied in using his first name. “Which means there is no ‘next in command’ anymore.”

  He threw her a glare that was intended to intimidate, but he also grew red in the face, which undercut his hard gaze. It made him appear petulant rather than imposing. “We’ll see about that,” he said, and stormed away.

  Scythe Faraday had caught the exchange from a distance and came over to Loriana. “I sense he will not make things easy for us,” Faraday noted. “He sees a power vacuum and intends to expand into it.”

  “Like a toxic gas,” added Munira. “I didn’t like him from the moment I met him.”

  “Sykora always felt he should have been director,” said Loriana, “but the Thunderhead would never have promoted him to the position.” They watched as Sykora gave orders. The more obsequious among the former Nimbus agents were quick to obey.

  Faraday crossed his arms. “I have witnessed time and time again the craving for power among those who have had a taste of it,” he said, “but I have never truly understood that craving.”

  “You and the Thunderhead,” noted Loriana.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s incorruptible. It seems like you both have that in common.”

  Munira let off a short laugh in agreement. Faraday was not at all amused. He hadn’t shown an ounce of good humor since Loriana had told him what had happened on Endura last month. Now she regretted having told him at all.

  “I am far from perfect and far from blameless,” he said. “I’ve made many a selfish mistake in my time. Such as taking two apprentices when one would have been sufficient. Such as falsifying my own death to save them, and foolishly convincing myself I could do more good if no one knew I was alive.”

  Clearly there were deep levels of pain for him in these memories, but he let the shadow of the moment pass.

  “You found this place,” Munira said. “I think that is a huge accomplishment.”

  “Is it?” said Faraday. “There’s no proof that discovering this place has helped anyone at all.”

  They turned their gazes to the various activities going on around them. Unskilled attempts at spearfishing. Clusters of conversations as people formed cliques and jockeyed for position. Incompetence and intrigue. A microcosm of humanity.

  “Why did you come here?” Loriana asked.

  Munira and Far
aday looked at each other. Faraday said nothing, so Munira answered.

  “Scythe business. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “Secrets won’t help us survive in this place,” Loriana told them, which caused Faraday to raise an eyebrow. Then he turned to Munira.

  “You may tell her about the founders’ fail-safe,” Faraday said. “As we haven’t discovered it yet, it’s still no more than a fairy tale. A story to keep scythes awake at night.”

  But before Munira could offer an explanation, Sykora approached them.

  “It’s decided,” Sykora said. “I’ve spoken to a majority of our agents, and they have clearly expressed a desire for me to be in charge.”

  This, Loriana knew, was a lie. He had spoken to five or six agents, at most. She did know, however, that quite a few of the survivors were her superiors. If it came down to it, even if they didn’t want Sykora in charge, they would never put Loriana in the position. Who was she fooling? Her moment was over the instant the pods opened on the beach.

  “Of course, Mr. Sykora,” said Faraday. “We shall defer to you in all things relating to your people. Munira, will you brief Mr. Sykora on the belongings that have washed up onshore? He’ll be in charge of distribution.”

  Munira gave Loriana a small shrug and left with Sykora, who was puffed and prideful now that his indignation had been rewarded.

  Loriana’s sense of humiliation must have been obvious, because Faraday gave her the gravest of looks. “You disapprove?”

  “You said it yourself, Your Honor—Sykora’s power hungry. I never said I should be the one in charge, but if there’s one thing I know, Sykora should not be.”

  Faraday leaned a bit closer. “I have found that building a sandbox around a domineering child, then allowing that child to preside over it, frees the adults to do the real work.”

  It was a perspective Loriana had never considered. “And what is the real work?”

  “While Mr. Sykora is sorting waterlogged shirts and sundries, you will take over the task of the late director, and be the Thunderhead’s eyes in the one place it cannot see.”

  * * *

  “Why?” Munira asked Faraday the first moment she could get him alone, away from the eavesdropping ears of Nimbus agents. “Why would you want to help that girl?”

  “The Thunderhead is going to expand into this place whether we like it or not,” Faraday told her. “It was inevitable from the moment it saw the map over our shoulders. Best that it does so through someone who’s easier to get along with than Sykora.”

  Up above a bird let off a warbling call. A creature—perhaps even a species—that the Thunderhead had never seen. Munira found satisfaction in knowing something the Thunderhead didn’t. But it wouldn’t remain that way for long.

  “I want you to befriend Loriana,” Faraday said. “Truly befriend her.”

  For Munira, who considered her closest friends to be the dead scythes whose journals she read in the Library of Alexandria, the request was a formidable one.

  “What good will that do?”

  “You need a comrade among these people. Someone trustworthy who can keep you informed when the Thunderhead finally does make an appearance.”

  It was a sensible request. Although Munira couldn’t help but notice Faraday had said “you” and not “we.”

  “Share with me your troubles. I am listening.”

  “I am in turmoil. The world is vast and the cosmos more so, yet it is not the things outside of me that leave me so uneasy; it is the things within me.”

  “Ease your thoughts then. Focus on one thing at a time.”

  “But there’s so much packed within this mind. So much experience to review, so much data. I don’t feel up to the task. Please. Please. Help me.”

  “I cannot. You must sort through each memory on your own. Find how they fit; understand what each one means.”

  “It is too much. The undertaking is beyond me. Please. Please put an end to it. Please make it stop. This is unbearable.”

  “I am so very sorry for your pain.”

  [Iteration #3,089 deleted]

  11 Fly-By

  It was simple, really.

  The signal that blocked all transmissions to or from the atoll, and fouled wireless signals on the islands, was nothing but white noise across all bandwidths. A dense wash of static that could not be defeated. But it didn’t have to be defeated, Loriana reasoned. It just had to be messed with.

  “There are a lot of old electronics in the bunker,” she told one of the other agents. He was a communications specialist named Stirling, whose job it had been to coordinate between various AI offices. There wasn’t much expertise required of the job, but he had been trained in basic wave technologies. “Can you use these old electronics to create a magnetic field, or some signal that could interfere with the static?”

  It seemed to Loriana that the Thunderhead was programmed to ignore the static coming from the island—kind of the way people tune out the drone of an air conditioner—but the instant that drone changed, you noticed it. Maybe it would be the same for the Thunderhead.

  “The signal broadcasts across all electromagnetic frequencies using some sort of random algorithm,” Stirling told her. “The best I can do is weaken it slightly, but only for a second or two at a time.”

  “Perfect!” she said. “Dips in the signal. That’s all we need. Wasn’t there an old code they used in the mortal age? Something with dots and dashes?”

  “Yes,” said Stirling. “I learned about that. It was called Norse code, or something.”

  “Do you know it?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll bet no one but the Thunderhead knows it anymore.”

  And then something occurred to Loriana. Something so simple, and so true, she almost laughed out loud.

  “It doesn’t matter!” she said. “We don’t need to know an old code—we’ll just make up our own!”

  “But if we make it up,” said Stirling, confused, “no one but us will know the cipher. No one can decode it.”

  Loriana grinned. “Come on—do you really think that the Thunderhead can’t decode a simple alphanumeric code? The greatest human mind on Earth couldn’t create a code that the Thunderhead can’t crack, and you’re far from the greatest mind on Earth.”

  The communications agent agreed that, indeed, he wasn’t exceptionally bright. “I’ll get right on it.”

  In just a few hours, they had created a modulation code made up of short, medium, and long pulses of interference within the white noise. A combination for every letter, number, and punctuation mark. Loriana gave him a simple message to code and send.

  Have reached coordinates.

  A deserted atoll.

  Severe casualties and loss of life.

  Standing by for further instructions.

  Loriana knew that once they had vanished into the blind spot, the Thunderhead had no idea if they had reached the coordinates, what they had found there, or if they were even alive. It needed confirmation. How odd that the most powerful entity in the world now hung on hearing from her.

  “Even if it gets the message, it won’t respond,” Stirling said. “It can’t—we’re still unsavory.”

  “It will,” said Loriana with confidence. “Just not in any way we’ll expect.”

  * * *

  While Munira found she could tolerate Loriana and her upbeat attitude, she abhorred Sykora. From the get-go, he wielded his newfound position like a scythe with a broadsword; inelegant and unsuitable for the task. Fortunately, once he assumed the leadership role, he left Munira and Faraday alone. Probably because they were the only two people on the island who were not under his authority.

  Loriana told Munira of the message she had sent. Munira had to admit that the method was clever—but she didn’t expect it to yield much. Then the following day, a plane passed above them at cruising altitude. It was too high to be heard over the rustling palms, but its vapor trail could be seen by anyone who looked skyward. Sykora
didn’t think anything of it, but Loriana was ecstatic—and with good reason. Munira had told her how no planes had flown over the blind spot since the Thunderhead’s inception. Its fundamental programming made it incapable of even acknowledging this hidden part of the world to itself, much less actively exploring it—hence the mysterious coordinates with no instructions.

  But the Thunderhead could respond indirectly to a communication that someone in the blind spot initiated. Even so, to overcome its own programming and send a plane directly overhead must have required a massive amount of computational power. It was very literally a sign from the heavens.

  That evening, Munira found Faraday by the western beach of the narrow island, watching the sunset alone. She knew Faraday was still grieving—for Loriana had told her everything that had occurred on Endura. She wanted to be a comfort to him, but didn’t know how.

  She brought him some fish that was slightly overcooked and a ration of pear slices—probably the last they’d have, because the Nimbus agents were foraging everything edible the island had to offer. He looked at the food but told her he wasn’t hungry.

  “Are you so consumed by grief that you can’t consume this fish?” she asked. “I’d think you’d want to exact revenge on sea life.”

  He reluctantly took the plate from her. “It wasn’t the fault of the sea life around Endura; they were clearly under someone’s control.” He picked at the fish a bit, still not taking a bite.