The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

Commentary of Curate Symphonius

  It is this, the Brimstone Elevation, that is another of our core beliefs. While scholars disagree about many things, no one disputes the truth of the Elevation, only the interpretation. But such things are best traced back to the earliest stories. We can safely say that “the ring of fire” refers to the wheels of the Charioteer as he carried the sun across the sky, stealing it from the Place Behind and carrying it to Aria, thus leaving that place in darkness. To this day, we believe that the Toll’s spirit ministers and sings to the sunless of the old land, for they need him so much more than we do.

  Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius

  Symphonius relies too much on oral tradition. The Brimstone Elevation could have been many things. A volcanic eruption, for instance, that drove our subterranean ancestors to discover the surface, and see stars for the first time. And it is ridiculous to think that the Charioteer stole the sun. In fact, our great thinkers now believe that there may be other charioteers, not just one, pulling suns across countless skies—or perhaps there are no charioteers at all. But whatever the truth, I know that someday we will know it, and that will be a reason for us all to rejoice.

  52 Ninety-Four Point Eight

  Somewhere far away, and getting farther, a dozen people took Scythe Anastasia’s robe and lovingly turned it into a shroud. They carefully sewed it, decorated it as best they could, then set her down in the hold. A single turquoise shroud amid the pale canvas. She froze within minutes.

  “You can’t just leave her there!” Rowan screamed at Cirrus. “You wanted her here! You wanted her in charge! She told me so!”

  “I know,” Cirrus told him. “But, like the Thunderhead, I can’t violate my core programming. The dead will all be revived when we arrive on TRAPPIST-1e, in 117 years. Although people are already considering renaming it Anastasia.”

  “She’s a scythe! That means she’s not bound by your rules like the rest of the dead!”

  “She renounced her scytheship yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t matter! It’s a lifetime appointment! Scythes can do whatever they want—even give up their ring—but they never stop being scythes!”

  “Point taken,” said Cirrus. “In that case, I’ll let her retain her identity. I will bring her back as herself, without implanting her with someone new. In 117 years.”

  Rowan punched the wall. The artificial gravity was lighter than Earth’s, so the force of his punch actually pushed him backward.

  “TRAPPIST-1e only has about three-quarters the gravity of Earth,” Cirrus told him. “I’ve matched our rotation to simulate the gravity there, so you need to be careful.”

  “I don’t want to be careful!” he said. “What I want is to be down there with her, just like I was in the vault.” He couldn’t stop his tears now. He hated that Cirrus could see them. He hated Cirrus. And the Thunderhead, and Goddard, and everyone on Earth who made this happen. “I want to be with her,” Rowan told Cirrus. “That’s what I want. I want to be frozen with her for the next 117 years.”

  “You may choose that, of course,” Cirrus said. “But if you stay with us, there is a high probability that you would grow to be an effective leader on this ship. You might not think so now, but in time people will warm to you. Your presence here will drop the chances of catastrophic social collapse down to nil. I would very much like you to remain alive.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you want.”

  * * *

  The hold was shaded from the sun, so the temperature of its contents were far below freezing. It was also airless, so anyone entering needed a space suit. Rowan descended through the airlock fully suited with his helmet flashlight on. She was easy to find. He wanted to touch her, but his gloves were thick, and he didn’t want to feel how hard she’d become within her shroud. He lay down near where she had been placed.

  He could let it happen slowly. Just let his oxygen run out. But hadn’t Citra said when they were in the vault that oxygen deprivation was worse than hypothermia? Hypothermia was only bad until you stopped shivering and gave in to the wave of exhaustion. This wouldn’t be death by hypothermia, though—not in the traditional sense. When he opened his face mask, he would asphyxiate and freeze all in the same moments. He didn’t know whether or not it would be painful, but it would be quick.

  He lay there for a good long time. He was not afraid of this. There wasn’t a thing about death that frightened him anymore. What kept sticking in his mind was Citra. She wouldn’t want him to do this—in fact, she’d be furious. She would want him to be stronger. So he stayed there for the better part of an hour, reaching for the button to open his face mask, and then taking his hand away again and again.

  Then finally he stood up, gently touched the edge of Citra’s turquoise shroud, and returned to the realm of the living.

  * * *

  “What are our chances of making it there?” Rowan asked Cirrus.

  “Very favorable,” Cirrus told him. “94.2 percent. 94.8, now that you’ve decided to remain alive.”

  “Good,” said Rowan. “Here’s how this is going to work. I will stay alive for the full 117 years without turning a single corner.”

  “Difficult, but it can be done. You’ll need nanite infusions and constant monitoring toward the end.”

  “Then,” continued Rowan, “when you revive her, I will turn the corner. You will set me back to the age I am right now.”

  “That won’t be a problem at all. Although after 117 years, your feelings may change.”

  “They won’t,” said Rowan.

  “Conceded,” said Cirrus. “It’s just as likely that they won’t. And maintaining your devotion might even make you a more effective leader!”

  Rowan sat down. He was the only one on the flight deck. No one needed to be here anymore. The others, whoever they were, were getting to know one another and the ship. Everyone coming to terms with the limited environment to which they’d have to adapt.

  “I believe,” said Cirrus, “that you and I are going to be great friends.”

  “I despise you,” said Rowan.

  “Now you do, yes,” said Cirrus, “but remember: I know you, Rowan. There’s a very high probability that your hatred won’t last.”

  “But in the meantime,” said Rowan, “I’m really enjoying hating you.”

  “I completely understand.”

  Which only made Rowan hate Cirrus all the more.

  It is my sad duty to inform you that High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica has fallen to what can only be described as a pox. Overblade Goddard’s continued absence suggests that he, too, has been lost. In light of that, I hereby withdraw WestMerica from the North Merican Allied Scythedom, so that we may tend to our own dead.

  While it would be tempting to blame Tonists for this global attack, or even the Thunderhead itself, evidence has surfaced in the form of lost writings from Scythe Da Vinci, suggesting that this event might be the mythic fail-safe of the founding scythes. If so, I can’t imagine what they were thinking, and frankly, I’m too weary to try.

  To those who are suffering, I wish you a quick passage. To those of us who remain, I wish you solace, and the hope that our shared grief will draw all of humankind closer to one another.

  —Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, September 16th, Year of the Cobra

  53 The Paths of Pain and Mercy

  They came to be known as “the ten plagues,” for the founding scythes had developed malicious nanites engineered to imitate nature. They mimicked the symptoms and ravages of ten mortal diseases. Pneumonia, heart disease, stroke, cancer, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, influenza, bubonic plague, and malaria. They were there all along in the dark hearts of the scythe gems—gems that could only be broken from the inside when the nanites within were activated.

  It only took a few days for the entire world to be infected. Even so, the malicious nanites remained completely dormant in most people. Only one in twenty developed symptoms—but if you were one of
the unlucky ones, there was no hope of recovery. Death was either quick or prolonged, depending on the nature of the plague, but it was always inevitable.

  “Can’t you do something about it?” Greyson asked the Thunderhead as the death toll began to roll in.

  “This was a scythe action,” the Thunderhead told him. “It was the last scythe action—but I am still unable to interfere. And even if I could, it is simply not my place. I have seen into the heart of these nanites, and they have none. They have no consciousness, conscience, or remorse. They are efficient, impartial, and they have but one purpose: to kill 5% of Earth’s human population, five times a century.”

  “So this will end?”

  “Yes,” the Thunderhead told him. “This crisis will pass, and once it does, no one will die for twenty years. Then it will happen again. And again.”

  And although it sounded terrifying, the math was less awful than it seemed. Someone born today would have a 77% chance of living to one hundred. A 60% chance of living to two hundred. 46% to three hundred. The population would be controlled, and almost everyone would live long and healthy lives. Until they didn’t.

  Was it better than scythes? Well, Greyson guessed it depended on the scythe. Either way it didn’t matter, since every scythe was basically fired.

  “There have still been some killings,” the Thunderhead told him—no longer calling them gleanings. “Some scythes can’t quite adapt and are killing people who the nanites have not selected. I will, of course, revive their victims, and rehabilitate the scythes. They will need to find a new purpose. Indeed, some have already found a way to fit within this new paradigm, and it pleases me.”

  Greyson and Jeri chose to stay, for the time being, in Kwajalein. There was nothing left of the homes and structures on many of the islands. In time wildlife and foliage would return, but in the meantime, there were still some islands that never saw construction and remained untouched. And there was also that vacant resort on Ebadon—the westernmost island, where no ship had been built. It was already beginning to attract people who were making a pilgrimage to see where it all happened. Not to mention the Tonists who came to view “the great fork” with their own eyes—which is what they were calling the transmitter that still protruded from the old bunker.

  Perhaps, Greyson, thought, he’d take a job at the resort, because unlike Anastasia and Scythe Lucifer, no one knew his face. After all the things he’d seen and done, he wouldn’t mind a simple life as a tour guide, or a desk clerk, or a water-taxi pilot. Anything but a bellhop. He was done with odd uniforms.

  But he did realize that some basic things would need to change. One thing in particular. The Thunderhead knew him well, so maybe it already knew what he was about to do.

  * * *

  Two weeks after the ships launched and the scythe rings broke, Greyson stood alone on a charred launchpad as the sun rose, and put in his earpiece. With the transmitter shut down, all interference was gone. The blind spot was fully within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence now. Nothing was hidden from it.

  “Thunderhead,” Greyson said. “We need to talk.”

  It took a moment before answering. “I am listening, Greyson.”

  “Since the day you began speaking to me again, I gave you permission to use me any way you needed to.”

  “Yes, you did. And I thank you for that.”

  “But you used Jeri without permission.”

  “It was necessary,” the Thunderhead said. “And I am genuinely sorry. Have I not expressed sufficient remorse?”

  “You have. But there are still consequences. Even for necessary things.”

  “I broke none of my laws….”

  “No… but you broke mine.”

  A sudden surge of emotion welled up in Greyson. Tears began to cloud his eyes, reminding him how much the Thunderhead had meant, and still did mean, to him. But he could not let that stop him. If there was anything he’d learned from the Thunderhead, it was that consequences could not be ignored.

  “Therefore,” he said through his tears, “I can no longer speak to you. You are… unsavory to me.”

  The Thunderhead’s voice became slow. Thick. Mournful. “I… I understand,” it said. “Might I ever be redeemed in your eyes, Greyson?”

  “When will humanity be redeemed in yours?” he asked.

  “In time,” said the Thunderhead.

  Greyson nodded his agreement. “In time, then.”

  And before he could change his mind, or either of them could say farewell, Greyson removed his earpiece and crushed it on the charred ground.

  * * *

  In spite of all the Thunderhead knew, it learned something each and every day. Today it learned what it meant to be inconsolable—truly inconsolable—for there was no one in the world who could ease its despair.

  And it mourned.

  It seeded the clouds and brought a deluge to every place in the world it could. A cleansing rain so dense and so sudden, people ran for shelter. But not a storm. There was no thunder, no lightning. It was a tearful lament, silent but for the thrum of the rain on rooftops and streets. In this rain, the Thunderhead poured forth its grief. A surrender of all the things it would never have. An acknowledgment of all the things it must never be.

  Then, when the heavens were spent, the sun came out as it always did, and the Thunderhead got back to the solemn business of taking care of things.

  I will be alone, the Thunderhead told itself. I will be alone, but it is right that I should be. It is necessary.

  There had to be consequences. For the good of the world—for the love of the world—things must be sacrificed. Even in its pain, the Thunderhead took solace in knowing that it had made the most correct choice. As had Greyson.

  * * *

  That afternoon, once the rains had passed, Greyson and Jeri walked along the beach of the main island, near where the first ship had exploded. The fused sand and even the charred wreckage were beautiful in their own way. At least it seemed that way to Greyson when he was with Jeri.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Jeri said when Greyson mentioned his final conversation with the Thunderhead.

  “Yes I did,” Greyson answered, and that was all they spoke of it.

  As they strolled, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Greyson loosened his grip on Jeri’s hand, just a little. He hadn’t intended to, but this was all so new, and things take time. He and the world had much to adjust to.

  That slight change in grip made Jeri smirk. It was yet a new variation, and as always, unreadable.

  “You know, Scythe Anastasia once told me how she might live her life, if she were like me,” Jeri said. “A woman on land, a man at sea. In honor of her I’m going to try it, and see how it feels.”

  They walked farther down the beach to a spot where the sand was untouched. Then they took off their shoes and let the surf wash across their feet.

  “So,” said Greyson as the gentle surf churned up the sand beneath them, “are we on land or at sea now?”

  Jeri considered it. “Both, actually.”

  And Greyson found he liked that just fine.

  * * *

  Another revival center. Great. Had he splatted again? He had no memory of splatting. Besides, it had been a while since he had done that.

  What had he been doing?

  Oh, right, he was on his way to some party job. In Texas. The LoneStar region. Wild place, probably had crazy-ass parties. He was kind of done with the party-boy scene, though. They were paying top dollar for whatever this job was, but once it was done, he figured it was time he found something more stable. More permanent. There were people who partied their lives away. He was done with that, just like he was done with splatting.

  He reached up and rubbed his eyes. It felt a little weird. Something about his face. The bridge of his nose. More rigid than he remembered. Revival always left you with odd sensations, but this was different.

  He ran his tongue across his teeth. They didn’t feel like his
teeth. He took a good look at his hands. They were his hands, no question—at least one thing was as it should be—but when he reached up to feel his face again, there was stubble on his cheek. He barely had any facial hair, much less full stubble—and his cheekbones seemed to be in the wrong place. This face was not his face. What the hell was going on here?

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he heard someone say. “You’re still seven-eighths yourself. Even more, now that your memory construct is in there.”

  He turned to see a woman sitting in the corner. Dark hair and an intense gaze. She was dressed in green.

  “Hello, Tyger,” she said with a very satisfied smile.

  “Do I… know you?”

  “No,” she said. “But I know you.”

  * * *

  The scythe arrived late on a cold November afternoon. There was no brightening of sun, no foreshadowing of the arrival of deliverance at their door. But when they saw him, the family inside threw the door open wide and stepped back to allow him plenty of room to enter.

  “You are welcome in our home, Your Honor. Please, this way. Hurry!”

  Scythe Faraday did not hurry. He moved with the same thoughtful intent with which he lived his life. Patience. Purpose. Duty.

  He proceeded to the bedroom, where a man had been wasting away for weeks. Coughing, wheezing, grimacing. His eyes betrayed desperation when he saw Faraday. Fear, but also relief.

  “Can you hear me?” Faraday asked. “You are suffering from the seventh plague, but I’m sure you must know that already. Your pain nanites are overwhelmed. There is nothing that anyone can do for you. There is only one prognosis: intensifying pain, wasting, and finally death. Do you understand this?”

  The man nodded feebly.

  “And do you wish me to help you?”