“Barton Hunt,” he said. “Your mother has been sending you letters for six years, three months, and five days, but you return each one unopened.”
Then he turned to another.
“Aranza Monga—you once secretly told the Thunderhead that you wanted to be supplanted with the memories of your best friend, who had been gleaned. But, of course, the Thunderhead wouldn’t do such a thing.”
By the time he turned to a third, both Barton and Aranza were in tears. They fell to their knees, gripping the hem of his garment. They believed. Then, when Greyson looked around for a third, everyone braced as if about to be hit by some devastating blow.
“Zoran Sarabi…,” Greyson called out.
“UUUUH,” said the man, shaking his head. “Uuuuh-uhhh…” Then he knelt in obeisance before the Toll could even speak, terrified of what truth might be told.
Finally, Greyson turned to their curate. “And you,” he said, unable to hide his disgust. “Rupert Rosewood. You demanded that all your followers feel the pain of the muteness you forced upon them… but you never felt that pain yourself. You had your tongue removed under anesthesia, because you were too much of a coward to live by your own warped convictions.”
And although the man was horrified at being exposed, he did not yield. He only grew red with anger.
Greyson took a deep breath and dug down to find his deepest, most resonant voice. “I am the Toll, the Tone made flesh. I alone hear the Thunder! This man you call ‘curate’ is not worthy of the title. He is a traitor to all you believe in, and he has misled you. Defiled you. He is false. I am true. So tell me now: Who do you serve?”
Then he took a deep breath and said one more time with a voice that could make mountains bow, “WHO DO YOU SERVE?”
And one by one, they all knelt before the Toll, lowering their heads in supplication, some even prostrating themselves on the forest floor. All of them but one. Their curate—who was now quaking with fury. He opened his hollow mouth to intone, but it was a weak, miserable sound. He was alone. No one joined him. Still, he continued until his breath failed him.
And when silence fell, Greyson turned to Mendoza, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear what came next for them.
“You will inject them all with fresh nanites, so that their tongues may grow back, and this reign of terror can end.”
“Yes, Your Sonority,” said Mendoza.
Then Greyson approached the curate. He thought the man might strike out at him. Greyson almost hoped that he would. But he didn’t.
“You’re done,” Greyson said in disgust. Then he turned to Scythe Morrison and said two, simple words that he never thought he’d hear himself say.
“Glean him.”
Without hesitation Scythe Morrison grabbed the curate with both hands, turned his head one way, his body another, and executed him.
* * *
“Tell me I was wrong!” Greyson paced the tent they had set up for him in the forest, unsettled in a way he had never been unsettled before.
“Why should I tell you that?” the Thunderhead asked, calm as calm could be.
“Because if it was wrong to order that man gleaned, I need to know!”
Greyson could still hear the sound of the man’s neck snapping. It was the most horrible thing that he had ever heard. And yet he liked it. Seeing that monstrous curate die was far too satisfying for comfort. Is this what those new-order scythes felt? A primal, predatory lust for the crushing of life? He wanted no part of that feeling, yet here it was.
“I cannot speak on the subject of death; it is not in my domain—you know this, Greyson.”
“I don’t care!”
“You’re being rather irrational.”
“You can’t say anything about death, but I know you can talk about right and wrong! So was it wrong to have given Morrison that order?”
“Only you can know that.”
“You’re supposed to be directing me! Helping me to help you make a better world!”
“And you are,” said the Thunderhead. “But you’re not infallible. Only I am infallible. So, if you’re asking me if it’s possible for you to make errors in judgment, the answer is yes. You make errors all the time… as does every other human being who has ever lived. Error is an intrinsic part of the human condition—and it is something I deeply love about humankind.”
“You’re not helping me!”
“I charged you with unifying the Tonists so that they could be more useful to the world. I can only speak to your progress in the task, not judge your methodology.”
Enough. Greyson ripped his earpiece off. He was about to throw it in anger, but then he heard, faint and tinny, the Thunderhead’s voice still speaking through it.
“You are a terrible person,” the Thunderhead said. “You are a wonderful person.”
“Well, which is it?” Greyson demanded.
And the response, as faint as faint could be, came back to him—not as an answer, but as another question.
“Why can’t you see that the answer is both?”
* * *
That evening, Greyson put back on his vestments and prepared to address the Tonists. To grant them forgiveness. He had done this many times before, but no sibilant Tonists he faced had ever done something as heinous as these.
“I don’t want to forgive them,” he told Mendoza before he went out.
“Granting them absolution brings them into the fold,” Mendoza said. “It serves our needs. And besides,” he added, “it’s not Greyson Tolliver forgiving them, it’s the Toll. Which means your personal feelings shouldn’t even come into play.”
When Greyson put his earpiece back in, he asked the Thunderhead if Mendoza was right. Did it want Greyson to forgive them? Or, more to the point, did the Thunderhead forgive them? Was it so magnanimous that it could even excuse their curate?
“Ah,” the Thunderhead said sadly. “That poor man…”
“Poor man? That monster doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”
“You didn’t know him as I did. As with all others, I watched him from birth. I saw the forces in his life that shaped him, turning him into the bitter, misguided, self-righteous man he became. Thus, I mourn his gleaning just as I mourn all others.”
“I could never be as forgiving as you,” Greyson said.
“You misunderstand; I don’t forgive him—I merely understand him.”
“Well, then,” Greyson said, still a bit belligerent from their earlier conversation, “you’re not a god, are you? Because a god forgives.”
“I never claimed to be a god,” the Thunderhead responded. “I am merely godlike.”
* * *
The Tonists were waiting for the Toll when he came out. They had been waiting for hours. They probably would have waited through the night.
“Don’t try to speak,” he told them when he saw them attempting to greet him. “Your tongues have no muscle memory. It will take some time until you teach yourselves to speak again.”
By the way they looked to him with awe and reverence, he knew that their violent deeds were behind them. They were no longer Sibilant. And when the Toll forgave them, they cried tears of true remorse for what they had done, and tears of pure joy at having been given a second chance. Now they would follow the Toll wherever he led. And a good thing, too. Because, as it would turn out, he’d need to lead them into darkness before he could lead them into light.
We have now laid the groundwork for scythedoms in each of the world’s regions, all reporting to us, so that we may maintain order and consistency of vision. We have even begun plans for a city that exists separate and apart from any region, so we may maintain impartiality. Prometheus is now Supreme Blade, and there’s talk of “Grandslayers” to represent each continent. Oh, but we’ve gotten full of ourselves! Secretly, I hope our tenure as the arbiters of death is brief and that we are quickly deemed obsolete.
The cloud has announced plans for a lunar colony—the first step toward expanding our footprin
t in the universe. If successful, it will provide far better population control than we scythes can provide. I, for one, would much rather live in a world where the surplus population can leave, rather than be denied its very existence.
The question remains, however, can we trust artificial intelligence with our future? Although I do have my concerns, I believe we can. The few remaining “world leaders” do nothing but malign the sentient cloud. In fact, they’ve begun calling it a thunderhead, as if rebranding it as a threatening storm will turn people against it. In the end they will fail, because their time is through. Whatever they choose to call it, the cloud’s benevolence speaks louder than the words of petty politicians and tyrants.
—From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci
37 Nothing Good About It
When Jerico Soberanis awoke from revival, Scythe Anastasia was in a chair beside the bed, sleeping with her knees tucked up to her chest. Fetal position, thought Jeri. No—more like a protective stance, like a tortoise in its shell. Did she feel so threatened that she needed to contract into herself when she slept, on guard even when unconscious? Well, if so, she had good reason to feel that way.
She was dressed simply now. Jeans. A white blouse. She wasn’t even wearing the ring. Nothing about her to indicate that she was a scythe. She appeared so modest for someone so much larger than life. To be larger than life was fine for the dead—they didn’t have to deal with the consequences, but for someone returned to life, it must leave one in a state of shock too strange to measure.
Jeri looked around at the gentle colors and easy nature of the room. This was, of course, a revival center. The fact that they were here meant that Jeri’s death had successfully attracted an ambudrone. Had Anastasia been here in the room for Jeri’s entire revival, keeping a vigil?
“So glad you’re awake!” said a revival nurse, stepping into the room and raising a curtain to reveal what was either a sunrise or a sunset, then checking Jeri’s chart. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
* * *
Citra had been dreaming of flying. Not all that far from reality, either. She had clung to Jeri’s arm as the ambudrone soared with them across the city, struggling to maintain flight with the added weight. She was sure she must have dislocated Jeri’s shoulder, but such things didn’t matter to the deadish. Any damage done would be healed before the captain awoke.
In Citra’s dream, Jeri’s arm became suddenly covered in grease, and she slipped, but didn’t fall. Instead, she flew on her own. The problem was she couldn’t stop or control her direction. Soon she was out over the bay and beyond, heading west across the Atlantic toward the distant Mericas. She had no idea what awaited her there, but she did know it would be in the realm of nightmares.
And so she was grateful to be stirred awake by the revival nurse’s gentle voice.
She uncurled from her chair and stretched out the kink in her neck. Jeri was alive again, and much more alert than she. “Good morning,” Citra said groggily—then realized it sounded far too weak for a scythe. Even one who was currently incognito. She cleared her throat and spoke with more confidence. “Good morning,” Anastasia said.
“Nothing good about it, I’m afraid,” said the nurse. “I’ve never seen so many BladeGuards roaming the streets. The scythedom is still looking for those terrible Tonists who ended the High Blade, but they’re long gone, off to wherever it is people like that hide.”
Anastasia closed her eyes as the terror of that night came back to her. So many people had lost their lives, and although some were revived, there simply weren’t enough ambudrones to save everyone. Sibilants must have thrown dozens, maybe hundreds, into the fire. And, just as they had a plan of attack, they must have had a plan for escape.
The nurse explained that, in the day and a half since the ambudrone had left them here, Port Remembrance had been put on complete lockdown. The situation in North Merica was probably even worse. What Goddard had done in that stadium was beyond a line in the sand—it was a fissure. Either you embraced his way, or you ran from it. There were plenty of people doing both.
Anastasia knew she might be recognized. Now that she had gone public, and people knew she was alive, it would be much harder to hide.
“Seeing as you’re awake, I’m sure there’ll be scythes in to see you,” the nurse told Jeri. “Not to worry—they’re not here to glean, just to question. You both worked at the palace, didn’t you? They want to question everyone who was there.”
Jeri glanced at Anastasia as she put a comforting hand on the shoulder she had dislocated not so long ago.
“Right,” said Jeri. “Well, I suppose we’ll be looking for new jobs.”
“Oh, don’t concern yourselves with that. The Thunderhead might not be talking these days, but it still puts up the job listings. If you want work again, there’s plenty to be had.”
After she left, Jeri raised the head of the revival bed a bit higher and smiled at Anastasia. “So what was it like riding the back of an ambudrone?”
“It… wasn’t like that,” Anastasia said, but chose to spare Jeri the details. “I never got to thank you for what you did.”
“I just did my job,” Jeri said.
“Your job is to be a salvage captain, not this.”
“And didn’t I salvage an unsalvageable situation?”
“Yeah, you did,” Anastasia told Jeri with a smile. “Now we have to salvage this one, and get out of here before someone comes in to question us.”
But no sooner had she said it than the door swung open. It was a scythe. Anastasia’s heart seized for a moment until she realized who it was. Forest-green robe, concerned expression.
“My relief at seeing both of you can only be matched by my fear that someone else might,” Scythe Possuelo said. “No time for greetings—the SubSaharan scythes are already questioning why I’m here.”
“I haven’t been recognized yet.”
“Of course you have,” Possuelo said. “I’m sure the nursing staff here is all secretly atwitter about it. But luckily none of them have reported you—or you would already be on your way to Goddard. I’m here to escort you to a place of greater safety, where you can continue your broadcasts. More and more people are listening, Anastasia—and they’re finding the things you’ve been leading them to. Goddard is threatening to glean anyone caught poking around in the backbrain, but that’s not stopping people.”
“He couldn’t enforce it anyway,” Anastasia pointed out. “The backbrain is out of scythe jurisdiction.” It reminded Anastasia how much digging she still had left to do.
“So what place of safety do you propose?” Jeri asked. “Is there such a place anymore?”
“Who can say?” Possuelo said. “Safe places are dwindling just as quickly as enemies mount.” He paused, considering something. “There are rumors… of a place so out of sight not even the most well-traveled scythes know of it.”
“Sounds more like wishful thinking,” Jeri said. “Where did you hear this?”
Possuelo offered an apologetic shrug. “Rumors are like rain through an old roof. The effort of finding the source is greater than the cost of a new roof.” Then he paused again. “There’s another rumor, though, that might be more useful to us. This one’s about the Toll—the Tonists’ so-called prophet.”
Tonists, thought Anastasia. Just the mention of them brought her to the edge of fury.
“There’s no proof that the Toll ever even existed,” Jeri pointed out. “He could be just another lie the Sibilants use to justify the things they do.”
“I believe he existed,” Possuelo said. “There’s evidence to suggest that he still does—and that he’s been standing against sibilant sects—we have such a sect in Amazonia who swore he visited them and turned them from their violent ways. If it’s true, he might be a worthwhile ally to have.”
“Well, whoever he is,” said Anastasia, “he’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
* * *
Ezra Va
n Otterloo didn’t dress like a Tonist. He didn’t quote platitudes, he didn’t insist on traveling in groups of seven or twelve, and he definitely did not intone. He did go by Brother Ezra, however—that was the only concession he made to his calling. It was his audience with the Toll over two years ago that brought him into the fold, giving him his purpose and setting him on his path. Whether or not the Toll was divine didn’t matter to Ezra. All that mattered was that the Thunderhead still spoke to him, and that made him worthy of being followed.
Ezra traveled the world, painting whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, just as the Toll said he should do, throwing up guerilla murals everywhere he went. And just as the Toll promised, he found his bliss. He had to be quick, he had to be quiet, and in all this time he had never been caught.
He would travel the world telling local Tonists wherever he went that he was on a mission from the Toll, and they would give him food and shelter. But then he started running into Tonists who claimed that the Toll had appeared to them after he was gleaned. They told him how they’d been sibilant, but the Toll reformed them. Ezra didn’t believe it at first, but still he’d listen to their testimony. Then during the night, he’d paint a scene of the Toll’s visitation somewhere in the city, in some place where no such painting was supposed to be.
After the third set of reformed Sibilants he came across, he realized there had to be some truth to it—so he began to seek out more such encounters. He’d track down groups known to be the worst of the worst, to see if they’d also been reformed. About half of them had, and the other half he imagined were probably on the Toll’s list. Then one day he showed up at an airport, uncertain of where to go next—and lo and behold, a ticket was already in the system for him. The Thunderhead had taken over his travels, sending him to sects the Toll had reformed, so he could visit them and leave behind a mural to honor the Toll. That’s how Ezra knew he was part of the Toll’s entourage, part of his story, even if the Toll didn’t know it.
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