The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  “We have to hurry,” Rowan said.

  “It’s not like I’m not stopping to sightsee,” Citra told him.

  The first gantry elevator was already on its way up, but the other one was open and waiting for them. They were still about fifty yards away when the second ship blew—this one even more violently than the first, sending shrapnel surging in all directions.

  “Don’t look,” Citra yelled. “Just run!”

  But Rowan looked. And what he saw burned in his mind with such cauterizing permanence, it would haunt him forever. A huge hunk of flaming metal was heading in their direction. Before he could even call out, it slammed into the ground, taking out half a dozen people to their right—and other, smaller pieces were striking the ground around them like meteorites. Citra was running at full speed; she was twenty yards from the gantry now. Rowan tried to catch up with her. He tried. He saw what was about to happen—saw the trajectory of the flaming shrapnel—and he dove for her.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  He just wasn’t fast enough.

  * * *

  Goddard had always been partial to close-range gleaning, but as he watched those missiles launch and those two ships detonate—with merely the lightest press of his finger on a button—he realized he could grow accustomed to this. What must it have been like to be mortal? To be in a craft designed for killing, and to truly believe your life and the lives of everyone you loved hinged upon whether or not you pressed that little button. Kill or be killed: the mortal way. It did have a quaint but visceral appeal!

  “This is extraordinary!” said Mendoza. “How could we not know this was happening?”

  Before them even more ships were launching—a dozen at least—like it was some sort of carnival game. Take them all down, win the biggest prize. The only question was which one to take down next?

  * * *

  Rowan tried to stanch the flow of blood from Citra’s wound, but it was no use; it was just too big. A chunk of flaming metal the size of a baseball had punched a hole in her side and had gone straight through. He knew there was nothing he could do for her. Not now. Not in this terrible instant. But there would be a way to rectify this. If only he could get her to that ship.

  She looked up at him, tried to mouth words, but he couldn’t tell what she was trying to say.

  “Shhh,” he told her. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

  He lifted her up and carried her to the gantry elevator, which rose up the side of the ship far too slowly, while up above Goddard’s plane came around, looking for its next target.

  * * *

  Another wave of ships launched. There were so many for Goddard to choose from now—but if he was quick enough, there was still a chance to bring plenty of them down. Then something below caught his eye. A ship on their left, still on its pad. Of course it was hard to see—but there were figures on a catwalk between the gantry to the open hatch of that ship. Was it his imagination, or was that a flash of turquoise there, waving at him like a flag? Yes! Yes, it was! Someone was carrying a figure in turquoise across the catwalk toward that hatch. And what a particular color it was! Oh, how the universe could reward you!

  “There!” he told the pilot. “Forget the others! This is the one I want!”

  Although he couldn’t clearly see who that second figure on the catwalk was, in his heart of hearts, he knew. Without question, he knew.

  I will destroy you, Rowan. I will destroy both you and Anastasia in one single blow, as my final judgment against you. I will incinerate you in an inferno so hot, not even your ash will remain to memorialize you.

  The pilot executed a sharp bank, and Goddard readied himself to launch the missile.

  * * *

  Rowan saw the plane coming straight toward them as he struggled with Citra across the catwalk. He could almost read Goddard’s mind, feel his blistering intent. This ended today, this ended now, one way or another. He pushed through the hatch with Citra, and the instant he did, the hatch sealed behind him.

  He shifted Citra in his arms, and when he caught a glimpse of her eyes, he could tell that the light had faded. The damage she endured had been too great. She had gone deadish.

  “Somebody help me!” he yelled as he lay Citra down. “Cirrus!”

  “Busy,” said Cirrus. “You had better hold on.”

  Rowan tried to calm his panic. It would be all right. Deadish is not dead, he told himself. Scythes could only die by self-gleaning, which meant no matter what Goddard did to her, Cirrus would revive her. Let her sleep through the worst of this, and wake up in a day or two, when all their troubles were left behind on a blue dot receding in a star-filled sky.

  A deafening, head-splitting roar overwhelmed him. Rowan’s teeth vibrated so hard, he thought they’d rattle out of his head.

  “We’ve been hit!” someone screamed next to him. “We’ve been hit!”

  Then Rowan felt so heavy he could barely move. They hadn’t been hit; this was liftoff! So he held on to Citra with one hand, and he hooked his other arm through the screamer’s harness, holding on for all he was, or would ever be, worth.

  * * *

  The pilot’s maneuvers were too much for Mendoza. He had strapped himself back in and had vomited more than once. Scythe Rand was feeling queasy herself, but for entirely different reasons. She held on and stayed by Goddard’s side through all of it.

  Their target had been locked in—a rocket that was just blasting off. There was a triumphant, determined look in Goddard’s eye. Ayn hated that look, and more than anything, she wanted to make that look go away. So she pulled out a knife and gleaned the pilot, which was probably not the best idea, but she hadn’t liked the way he had looked at her. As if he were afraid she might glean him.

  Then, before Goddard could even react, she turned the blade on him, thrusting it deep, severing his aorta from his heart. Quick. Clean. Minimal damage.

  “Ayn…,” he wailed. “What have you… what have you…”

  Then she leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry, Robert,” she said. “It’s only temporary. I promise you won’t be deadish for long.”

  “Scythe Rand!” blubbered Mendoza. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s already done.”

  This wasn’t about saving the Thunderhead’s ships—Ayn couldn’t care less about them. This was about saving herself—because if Goddard blew these rockets out of the sky, the world would soon know. It already knew his other crimes—she would not allow herself to go down as an accomplice to another. Her name was tied to his in so many ways. It was time to extricate herself. Now she would be known as the scythe who stopped him.

  Rand had no idea how to fly a plane, but she didn’t have to fly it for long. All she had to do was hold it reasonably level until they cleared the interference; then the autopilot would take over—

  But their view was eclipsed by the launching ship that Goddard had wanted to take out. For an instant Ayn thought they might hit it, but instead they were caught in its flame trail. Suddenly every alarm onboard began ringing, clanging, and blaring. She threw the dead pilot out of his seat and took the controls. They fought against her. She tried to steady the plane, but it was too damaged and was quickly losing altitude.

  Mendoza unstrapped himself. “The safety pod!” he yelled. “Hurry!”

  Knowing there was nothing she could do to save the plane, she grabbed Goddard’s body and dragged him to the safety pod, which had plenty of room for the three of them. But once she and Goddard were safely inside, she grabbed Mendoza and threw him out.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to catch the next one.” Then she closed the hatch, ejected, and let Mendoza enjoy a happy little death spiral to the sea.

  * * *

  Sister Astrid found the blastoff to be much more violent and jarring than she’d expected. Their ship had been on one of the farthest islands. She almost missed the launch, but a kind man in a speedboat had gotten her there just in time. The engine
s ignited even before she had her harness fully on.

  The first minute was the worst of it, and the booster separation felt like an explosion. More than once she thought their trip would end before it began. She intoned through all of it, but she couldn’t even hear herself over the roar of the engine. Then the final stage separated, the rattling stopped, and the silence was so complete, her ears rang with it. Her hair drifted up, tickling her face. They were weightless! They were in free fall! She unbuckled her harness and pushed herself free—the first to do so—and she laughed with the joy of it.

  “Welcome,” said Cirrus. “I’m pleased to say we had a fully successful launch. We’re on our way to Aria.”

  Astrid turned around, ready to meet her shipmates. They were not Tonists, but that didn’t matter. She was sure, over the years, with her leadership, they would come to hear the vibration. But to her surprise, the seats in her cluster were empty.

  “You’ll need to strap yourself in again, Astrid,” Cirrus said. I’m about to initiate a barrel roll. The centrifugal force will create a semblance of gravity. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  She pushed off to get a better view of the launch deck. It wasn’t just her cluster of seats that was vacant. They all were.

  “Where… are the others?”

  “The colonists are in the hold,” said Cirrus.

  “No, I mean the living. I mean the rest of the crew.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cirrus, “but in the unexpected haste of our departure, no one else made it aboard this particular ship.”

  Astrid grabbed a floating strap of her harness and pulled herself back to her chair, trying to let the full gravity of this take hold, just as artificial gravity pressed her down into her seat. She was dizzy and a bit nauseated by the barrel roll, but realized it wasn’t just that.

  1,683 years…

  “I would revive a few of the dead for you,” Cirrus said, “but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Thunderhead insisted upon only one rule that I am obliged to keep. The dead may not be revived until we arrive, lest I, or any of the living, be tempted to alter the variables of our journey. Our precious cargo must stay precious cargo.”

  Astrid nodded numbly. “I understand.”

  “But the good news is that you have the entire ship at your disposal. The many recreation centers, the exercise room. There are a variety of dining experiences, and a complete virtual immersion system to give you the experience of forests, beaches, or any environment you choose.”

  “But… I’ll be alone.”

  “Actually, no,” said Cirrus. “You will have me. I cannot offer you physical companionship, but I know that has never been your highest priority. You will, of course, need to remain alive for the full length of the journey, but I can arrange that.”

  Astrid took a long time to consider it. In the end, she decided that the path of self-pity wouldn’t do her any good. While Tonists shunned nanites and any form of life-extension, this was clearly what was expected of her. The Toll had brought her to Kwajalein, the Thunder had determined she would be alone, and the Tone desired that she live to see Aria.

  “This was the will of the Tone,” she told Cirrus. “It’s time for me to accept what cannot be avoided.”

  “I admire your convictions,” Cirrus told her. “They make you strong. One could say they transform you.”

  “They give me… a reason to go on.”

  “And you shall go on,” Cirrus said. “And you shall be content. I will make it my goal to keep you in good spirits through all the years of our journey. Our ship may not survive the trip, but if it does, think of what that means, Astrid! You will truly be the mother of your people!”

  “Mother Astrid,” she said, and smiled. She liked the sound of that.

  * * *

  Down in the bunker, Scythe Faraday and Munira had felt, more than heard, the ships launch.

  “It’s done,” Faraday said. “Now we can get on with our business here on Earth.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But what is that business?”

  It was a weighty question. Faraday knew he could come out of hiding and challenge the new order—he might even succeed in calming the current turmoil and bringing a semblance of decorum and integrity back to the scythedom. But why? The push and pull would still be the same. A new “new order” would eventually rise and cut the feet off all their ideals. It was time for another way.

  On the panel before them, held in place by a double-ring lock, was a two-pronged switch marked simply TRANSMITTER ARRAY. It resembled, like the transmitter itself, a tuning fork. Faraday had to laugh. A joke on all of them, compliments of the deeply disillusioned founders.

  “We still don’t know what it will do,” said Munira.

  “Whatever it does,” he said, “it will be an imperfect solution. So let us embrace the imperfect.” Then he held the scythe ring out to her once more. “I know you have refused it… but I need you to be Scythe Bathsheba, just once, and never more. Then you may return to the Library of Alexandria, and I will make sure they treat you with the respect you deserve.”

  “No,” said Munira. “I’ll make sure.”

  She took the ring from him and slipped it on her finger. Then Scythe Faraday and Scythe Bathsheba closed their hands into fists, inserted their rings into the panel, and pulled the switch.

  * * *

  Up above, the island was in flames, courtesy of the first exploding ship. Buildings, trees, everything that could burn, were raging in the inferno as if the atoll was the rim of a volcano once more.

  Then a heavy hatch on a plateau that hadn’t opened for hundreds of years slid to the side, and the two prongs of the giant transmitter rose through the flames. It locked in position and sent out its message. It was not meant for human ears, so it was neither heard nor felt. Even so, it was incredibly powerful. Penetrating.

  The signal only lasted for a microsecond. A single sharp pulse of gamma radiation. G-rays. Although some would argue it was A-flat.

  * * *

  In the bunker, Faraday and Munira could feel a vibration, but it wasn’t coming from the transmitter.

  It was coming from their hands.

  Faraday looked down to see his ring developing hairline fractures like ice on a thawing pond. He realized what would happen an instant before it did.

  “Look away!”

  Like a high C shattering fine crystal, the gamma pulse shattered their diamonds, and when they looked down, the gems were gone. Only the empty settings remained, and a viscous, dark fluid with a faint metallic smell spilled down their knuckles.

  “So what now?” Munira asked.

  “Now,” said Faraday, “we wait and see.”

  * * *

  Scythe Sydney Possuelo was with his High Blade when their rings burst. He looked down at his hand, shocked; then, when he looked back at High Blade Tarsila, it seemed an entire side of her face had gone slack—not just that, but that entire side of her body, too—as if her brain had had some sort of massive hemorrhage that her nanites could not repair. Perhaps it was a piece of the diamond, he thought. Maybe it had ruptured with such force that a fragment had lodged in her brain—but there was no entry wound. She breathed out a last shuddering breath. How strange. How unfortunate. An ambudrone would be here soon, no doubt, to take her for revival. But an ambudrone never came.

  * * *

  In Fulcrum City, the entire chalet atop the scythedom tower shattered with the force of hundreds of thousands of scythe diamonds exploding from within. Shards of glass and fragments of crystalline carbon rained down on the streets below, and the dark liquid that had been at the core of each diamond evaporated into the wind.

  * * *

  Ezra Van Otterloo was nowhere near a scythe’s ring. And yet just a few hours after they shattered, he found his hand growing so stiff, he dropped his paintbrush. The stiffness became a pain in his arm and shoulder, then a heaviness in his back, expanding into his chest, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

&
nbsp; Suddenly he was on the ground. He didn’t even remember falling; it was as if the ground had risen up to grab him and slam him down. The pain in his chest was growing, everything began to darken all around him, and in a moment of intuition, he realized that this was the end of his life, and something told him that he wouldn’t be coming back.

  He had not done anything to deserve this, but that didn’t matter, did it? This sudden seizing of his heart was not something that could be reasoned with. It did not differentiate between good or bad. It was impartial and inescapable.

  He had never become the artist he wanted to be. But maybe there were other artists out there who would survive their heartache, whatever that heartache might be. Perhaps they would find the passion he never could and create masterpieces that would bring people to tears, just as great art did in the mortal age.

  That was the hope he held on to, and it gave him the comfort he needed to face his end.

  A Testament of the Toll

  Rise!” the Toll called, amid the fearsome Thunder. “Rise and leave this place behind, for I have set a place for you on high.” Then the Toll stood in the ring of fire, and, arms outstretched in the brimstone flames, he raised us up to the womb of Heaven, where we slept until the Tone called to us to be reborn, never to forget that the Toll remained in the Place Behind so that he might bring hope and intone songs of healing to that ancient wounded world. All rejoice!