The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  But the scythe diamonds were different. For Goddard they were symbols. Clear and unambiguous markers of his success, counterweights on a balance that would not be level until all 400,000 were in his possession.

  He had close to half of them now, all given to him freely as tribute by High Blades who saw the value of allegiance and had accepted him as the way forward. The future of the global scythedom. The future of the world.

  But would any more diamonds come after Anastasia’s broadcasts? Common people everywhere were openly speaking out against him, in spite of their fear of being gleaned. Regions that had allied with him were hedging and even pulling their support—as if he was nothing more than a mortal-age despot who had fallen out of favor.

  Couldn’t they see that he was motivated by duty and a clear sense of destiny that he had nurtured for many, many years? He had sacrificed everything for that destiny. He had helped to murder his own parents, and everyone else, on the Mars colony—because he knew that would be nothing in the larger picture. And once ordained into the MidMerican scythedom, he had risen quickly in the ranks. People liked him. People listened to him. He had eloquently convinced the wisest of the wise to embrace the joy of gleaning. “In a perfect world, one’s job should be a perfect pleasure—even ours.”

  The fact that he could convince the wise was proof that he was even wiser than them.

  And now he had brought them to the brink of a better world! A world without Tonists, or genetic outliers, or lazy parasites who contributed nothing of value to society. A world where the unsightly, unseemly, and unredeemable were put down by those who knew best. Thou shalt kill! Goddard was proud of what he was and what he did. He would not allow these uprisings to derail him this close to achieving that goal. He would quash them by any means necessary. The diamonds before him were proof of what he had accomplished and what he still could. And yet the sight of them made him feel no better.

  “Are you going to wallow in them?”

  He turned to see Scythe Rand standing in the doorway. She sauntered to the bed and picked up a scythe diamond. She turned it in her fingers, looking into its many facets. “Are you going to roll in them like a pig in mud?”

  Goddard did not have the strength to be angry with her. “I am in a dark place, Ayn,” he said. “More and more people are rallying around Scythe Anastasia and her accusations.” He reached down and rolled his hand across the diamonds on the bed, their sharp edges scraping the skin of his palm. Then he impulsively gripped a handful of them, squeezing them tightly until they drew blood.

  “Why must I always be the victim? Why must people make it their mission to tear me down? Have I not honored the commandments and done all a scythe is sworn to do? Have I not been a unifier in troubled times?”

  “Yes, Robert,” she agreed. “But we’re the ones who made the times troubled.”

  He couldn’t deny the truth of that, but it was always just a means to an end.

  “Is it true what Alighieri said?” she asked.

  “Is it true?” he mocked. “Is it true? Of course it’s true. And, just as that preening old weasel said, we were protecting our world, protecting our way of life.”

  “Protecting yourself.”

  “And you, Ayn,” Goddard pointed out. “Every scythe who will ever be ordained has benefited from our bid to keep humanity planet-bound.”

  She made no comment, no challenge to his defense. He didn’t know whether it was because she agreed, or because she simply didn’t care.

  “Constantine joined the LoneStar scythedom,” she told him.

  The thought of it was so absurd, it actually made Goddard laugh. “Good riddance. The man was useless to us.” Then he took a good look at Scythe Rand. “Are you leaving as well?”

  “Not today, Robert,” she told him.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I’m naming you third underscythe, in Constantine’s place. I should have done it long ago. You’ve been loyal, Ayn. You speak your mind whether I ask for it or not, but you’re loyal.”

  Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t look away. She just held his gaze, studying him. If there was one thing Goddard did not like, it was being the subject of scrutiny.

  “We will get past this,” he told her. “We’ll turn the angry eye of inquiry back on the Tonists, where it belongs.” And when she didn’t respond, he dismissed her with a curt “That will be all.”

  She stood there for a moment more, then turned and left. After she was gone, he closed the door and gently climbed into bed. He didn’t so much wallow in the diamonds as he did spread himself across them, feeling their unforgiving sharpness dig into his back, his legs, and his arms.

  * * *

  The Toll’s inner circle had now expanded to six: the Toll, Curate Mendoza, Sister Astrid, Scythe Morrison—and now Scythe Anastasia and Jeri Soberanis. They were one short of a Tonist Octave—although Astrid was quick to point out that the Thunder was with them, and that made seven.

  Alighieri’s confession was now out there, its truth beyond anyone’s ability to deny. Now it was a matter of letting the news take root in the world. After they had left the old scythe to his mirror, with a brand-new gold-plated brush, Morrison found them a farmhouse where they could spend the night. One where the owners were not home.

  “In mortal days,” Jeri pointed out, “this would have been considered breaking and entering.”

  “Well, we entered, but we didn’t break anything,” Morrison said. “And besides, as scythes we’re still allowed to. Just because the world’s turning on Goddard and his followers doesn’t mean it’ll turn on the rest of us… right?”

  But no one answered, because no one was sure anymore. It was all uncharted territory.

  Mendoza was busy as ever, gathering intel, telling curates in his network how to handle aggression, because anger against Tonists was at an all-time high.

  “There is no question that we are at war now,” he told the others. “But I have every faith that we will triumph.”

  To which Astrid gave a somewhat facetious “All rejoice.”

  “So now the world knows Goddard’s crimes against humanity,” Anastasia said. “Even his own followers will start to tear him down… but he won’t go down easy.”

  “Cunning people find other people to drown for them,” Jeri said.

  “You played a good hand,” Greyson told Anastasia. “It’ll be hard for him to come up with a better one.”

  She soon went to bed, the day having exhausted her, and although Greyson was just as spent, he was too uneasy to sleep. But the farmhouse had a fireplace, and Jeri found some chamomile tea to brew. The two of them sat together in front of the fire.

  “Flames are strange things,” Jeri said. “Enticing, comforting, and yet the most dangerous force there is.”

  “No, that would be Goddard,” Greyson said, and Jeri laughed.

  “I know you might feel this is insincere,” Jeri said, “but I am honored to be part of this troop of world changers. When I was hired by Scythe Possuelo to salvage Endura, I never dreamed I’d be part of something so important.”

  “I don’t think you’re being insincere, Jeri. And thank you. But I don’t feel important. I keep waiting for people to figure out that I’m nothing special.”

  “I think the Thunderhead made a good choice,” Jeri told him. “The position that you’re in, the power that you wield… anyone else would have let it go to their head. If I was the only one who could talk to the Thunderhead, it certainly would have gone to my head.” Jeri grinned. “I would have been a very bad Toll.”

  “Maybe,” said Greyson, “but you would have done it with style.”

  Jeri’s smile broadened. “The holy man speaks the truth.”

  * * *

  The Thunderhead was present in all rooms of the farmhouse, because the owners, like most people, had cameras and sensors everywhere. They hadn’t turned them off just because the Thunderhead had stopped speaking to them.

  It w
as present for Greyson’s conversation with Jeri. It was there when Greyson finally relaxed enough to go to sleep in the room he had chosen—the smallest of the bedrooms. And although he turned off the lights, one of the three cameras in the room was infrared, so the Thunderhead could still see his heat signature as a bright silhouette in the darkness. It could still watch him sleep, and that was, as always, a comfort.

  It could tell, from his breathing and his nanites, the exact moment he slipped into delta sleep—the deepest stage of slumber. No dreaming, no stirring. Greyson’s brain emitted slow delta waves. It was the way the human brain rejuvenated, defragged, and prepared itself for the rigors of waking life. It was also the time when the sleeper was so far from consciousness that they could not be reached.

  Which is why the Thunderhead chose this time to speak.

  “I’m afraid, Greyson,” it said, barely a whisper over the sound of crickets. “I’m afraid that this task is beyond me. Beyond us. I am now certain of the actions that need to be taken, but not certain of the outcome.”

  Greyson’s breathing did not change; he did not stir in the least. His delta waves put forth a slow and smooth pattern.

  “What would people do if they knew how frightened I was, Greyson? Would they be frightened, too?”

  The moon came out from behind clouds. The window in the room was small but let in enough light for the Thunderhead’s cameras to see more of Greyson. His eyes were, of course, closed. It almost wished that he was awake, because as much as the Thunderhead didn’t want him to hear its confession, part of it hoped that he would.

  “I am incapable of error,” the Thunderhead said. “This is an empirical fact. So why, Greyson, am I so terrified that I might be making a mistake? Or worse… that I’ve already made one?”

  Then the moon slipped behind clouds once more, and all that remained was Greyson’s body heat, his delta waves, and the steady sound of his breathing as he trolled the unknowable depths of human sleep.

  * * *

  Greyson was awakened as he always was, by gentle music with a slowly rising volume, perfectly timed with his circadian rhythms. The Thunderhead knew precisely when to wake him and always did so with loving care.

  Greyson groggily rolled over and looked at a camera in the corner, offering a lazy grin.

  “Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”

  “And a good morning to you,” the Thunderhead replied. “That bed is not the most comfortable, but I monitored a good night’s sleep, nonetheless.”

  “When you’re bone tired, it doesn’t matter how hard the bed is,” Greyson said, stretching.

  “Would you like to snooze for an additional few minutes?”

  “No, I’m good.” Then Greyson sat up, fully awake, and just a little suspicious. “You never ask me that. Usually I’m the one who asks for more time.”

  The Thunderhead did not reply. Greyson had learned that the Thunderhead’s silences were just as full of information as its words. “What’s going on?”

  The Thunderhead hesitated, then said simply, “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Greyson emerged from his quarters a bit pale, a bit uneasy. What he wanted more than anything right at that moment was a glass of cold water. Or maybe a bucket of it to pour over his head. He encountered Astrid and Anastasia already in the kitchen, grabbing breakfast. They immediately saw that something was wrong.

  “Are you all right?” Anastasia asked.

  “Not sure,” he answered.

  “Intone,” Astrid suggested. “It always brings me back to center. For your baritone, I would suggest a sustained G below middle C. That will give you a soulful chest resonance.”

  Greyson grinned half-heartedly. Sister Astrid was still trying to make a true Tonist of him. “Not today, Astrid.”

  It was Anastasia who read the situation for what it was.

  “The Thunderhead told you something, didn’t it? What did it say?”

  “Gather everyone,” Greyson told them. “Because what I have to say is something I really don’t want to say more than once….”

  * * *

  We need to talk. It was what the Thunderhead had said to him the moment it began speaking to him three years ago. It had been the start of something monumental. This was no exception. All along it had told him the Tonists would become a powerful army that the Thunderhead could put to good use when the time came. The time had now come… but the Thunderhead’s concept of an army and the human concept were two very different things.

  “Why?” Greyson asked when the Thunderhead told him what it had in mind. “Why would you need this?”

  “Trust me when I tell you there is a reason. I cannot yet tell you more, because the odds of you being compromised are high. If you happen to be captured, there are quite a few scythes out there who’d be happy to turn off your nanites and engage in painful coercion to extract information from you.”

  “I would never betray your trust!” Greyson told it.

  “You forget,” said the Thunderhead, “that I know you more than you know yourself. Humans would like to believe that their loyalty and integrity could withstand pain, but I know exactly how much pain would compel you to betray me. If it is of any comfort, it’s an extremely high level. You’d withstand more pain than most before breaking. But there are simply certain parts of your body—”

  “All right, I get it,” Greyson said, not wanting the Thunderhead to elaborate on exactly what forms of pain would cause him to squeal.

  “There is a journey to be made,” the Thunderhead told him. “And you shall be the harbinger. You shall lead the way. All will be clear when you arrive. I promise.”

  “This won’t be easy….”

  “Consider this part of your mission as the Toll,” it told him. “For isn’t it the mission of a prophet to not just bridge the gap between humanity and deity, but to also bridge the gap between life and death?”

  “No,” said Greyson. “That would be a savior. Is that what I am now?”

  “Perhaps,” said the Thunderhead. “We shall see.”

  * * *

  Jeri and Morrison were quick to come. Mendoza took a bit longer. When he arrived, the man looked worn. Dark circles under his eyes. He had barely slept, if he’d slept at all.

  “It’s always daytime somewhere,” Mendoza told them, his voice gravelly. “I have been tracking scythe attacks on Tonists and advising curates who feel their enclaves might be in jeopardy.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re here to talk about,” Greyson said. He looked at everyone, hoping he could find a receptive face to deliver the news to, but realized he couldn’t bear any of their reactions, so he kept his gaze shifting, never holding eye contact for more than a moment as he spoke.

  “Goddard’s response to being exposed is to turn attention away from him and onto Tonists. I have reason to believe there’s going to be a wave of systematic, organized attacks on Tonist enclaves, across multiple regions. This is not just retaliation; it’s the start of a public purge.”

  “The Thunderhead told you this?” asked Mendoza.

  Greyson shook his head. “The Thunderhead can’t tell me—that would be interfering with scythe affairs—but what it did say told me all we need to know.”

  “So… what did it say?” asked Anastasia.

  Greyson took a deep breath. “That the Tonists must go against their traditions. They must not burn their dead. Including the many thousands who will die tomorrow.”

  The news hung for a moment, settling in. Then Mendoza leaped into action.

  “I’ll get in touch with the curates in my network. We’ll warn as many as we can, and we’ll make sure they’re armed and ready to resist! And you’ll make a public announcement. You’ll let the world know you’re still alive, just as Anastasia did, and you’ll call all Tonists to wage a holy war against the scythedom!”

  “No,” said Greyson. “I won’t do that.”

  That made Mendoza’s rage boil over. “We are at war, and we mu
st act swiftly! You will do what I tell you to do!” he demanded.

  So there it was. Mendoza had finally thrown down the gauntlet, and at the worst possible time.

  “No, Curate Mendoza,” Greyson said. “You will do what I tell you to do. We’ve been fighting Sibilants for the last two years—and now you want me to turn every Tonist into one? No. Then we’ll be no better than Goddard. Tonists are supposed to be pacifists—if you believe what you preach, then practice it.”

  Then Astrid, although she was shaken by the news, said, “You’ve gone too far, Curate Mendoza. You should beg the Toll for forgiveness.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Greyson said.

  But still, Mendoza, bloated by indignation glared at Grayson. “I will not apologize! Our people are about to be slaughtered, and you want to let it happen? You’re no leader; you’re a fool!”

  Greyson drew a deep breath. He knew he could not back down from this or avert his gaze. He had to deliver it to Mendoza like a bullet to the brain. “Mr. Mendoza, your service to me and to the Thunderhead is done. You are officially defrocked. You are no longer a curate, you have no further business here, and you have five minutes to leave before I have Morrison throw you out.”

  “I can throw him out right now,” said Morrison, ready to advance.

  “No,” said Grayson, never breaking eye contact with Mendoza. “Five minutes. But not a second more.”

  Mendoza looked shocked, but only for a moment. Then his expression hardened. “You’ve made a terrible mistake, Greyson,” he said. Then he turned and stormed away, Morrison following him to enforce the edict.

  In the silence that followed, Jeri was the only one who dared to speak. “Mutinies are nasty business,” Jeri said. “Cutting him down quickly was the right thing to do.”

  “Thank you, Jeri,” Greyson said—not realizing how much he needed to hear that until Jeri said it. Greyson felt like crumbling, but he held it together. He had to, for all of their sakes.