In the days before Rowan’s apprenticeship, Tyger Salazar had been his best friend—but such designations meant little after one has spent a year learning how to kill. Rowan imagined it must be what mortal-age soldiers felt when they returned from war. Old friendships seemed trapped behind a clouded curtain of experiences that old friends didn’t share. The only thing he and Tyger had in common was a history that was getting more and more distant. Now Tyger was a professional partier. Rowan couldn’t imagine a profession that he could relate to less.
“I just wish you would have given me a heads-up that you were coming,” Rowan said. “Were you followed?” Which he realized ranked pretty high on the list of stupid questions. Not even Tyger would have been clueless enough to come up to Rowan’s apartment if he knew he was being followed.
“Calm down,” Tyger said. “Nobody knows I’m here. Why do you always think the world is out to get you? I mean, why would the scythedom be after you just because you flunked out of your apprenticeship?”
Rowan didn’t answer him. Instead, he went over to the closet door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it, hoping that Tyger hadn’t looked inside to see the black robe of Scythe Lucifer. Not that he would understand what he was seeing. The general public didn’t know about Scythe Lucifer. The scythedom was very good at keeping his actions out of the news. The less Tyger knew, the better. So Rowan invoked the age-old ender of all such conversations.
“If you’re really my friend, you won’t ask questions.”
“Yeah, yeah. Big mystery man.” He held up the remaining bit of his sandwich. “Well, at least you still eat human food.”
“What do you want, Tyger? Why are you here?”
“Is that any way to talk to a friend? I come all this way—at least you could ask me how I’ve been.”
“So how’ve you been?”
“Pretty good, actually. I just got a new job in a different region—so I came here to say goodbye.”
“You mean some sort of permanent party job?”
“Not sure—but it pays much better than the party agency I was working for. And I finally get to see the world a little bit. The job’s in Texas!”
“Texas?” Rowan got a little worried. “Tyger, they do things . . . differently there. Everybody says, ‘Don’t mess with Texas’; why do you want to mess with it?”
“So it’s a Charter Region. Big deal. Just because Charter Regions are unpredictable doesn’t mean they’re bad. You know me; my middle name is ‘unpredictable.’ ”
Rowan had to stifle a laugh. Tyger was one of the most predictable people he knew. The way he became a splatting junkie, the way he ran off to be a professional partier. Tyger might have thought of himself as a free spirit, but he wasn’t at all. He just defined the dimensions of his own cage.
“Well, just be careful,” Rowan said, knowing that Tyger wouldn’t be, but also knowing that he’d land on his feet, whatever he did. Was I ever as carefree as Tyger? Rowan wondered. No, he wasn’t—but he did envy that about Tyger. Maybe that’s why they were friends.
The moment became a little awkward—but there was more to it than that. Tyger stood, but didn’t make any move to leave. There was something else he had to say.
“I have some news,” he said. “It’s actually the real reason why I’m here.”
“What kind of news?”
Still Tyger hesitated. Rowan braced, knowing it was going to be bad.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Rowan . . . but your dad was gleaned.”
Rowan felt the Earth shift slightly beneath him. Gravity seemed to pull him in an unexpected direction. It wasn’t enough to make him lose his balance, but it left him queasy.
“Rowan, did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you,” Rowan said softly. So many thoughts and feelings shot through him, short-circuiting one another until he didn’t know what to think or feel. He never expected to see either of his parents again, but to know that he couldn’t see his father—to know that he was gone forever—not just deadish, but dead. . . . He had seen many people gleaned. He had ended thirteen people himself, but never had Rowan lost someone so close to him.
“I . . . I can’t come to the funeral,” Rowan realized. “The scythedom will have agents there looking for me.”
“If there were any, I didn’t see them,” Tyger said. “The funeral was last week.”
That hit just as hard as the news.
Tyger offered him an apologetic shrug. “Like I said, there were tons of Ronald Danielses. It took a while to find you.”
So his father had been dead for more than a week. And if Tyger hadn’t come to tell him, he would never have known.
Then the truth slowly dawned on Rowan. This was no random event.
This was punishment.
This was retribution for the acts of Scythe Lucifer.
“Who was the scythe who gleaned him?” Rowan asked. “I have to know who did it!”
“Don’t know. He swore the rest of your family to silence. Scythes do that sometimes—you’d know that better than anyone.”
“But he gave the others immunity?”
“Of course,” Tyger said. “Your mother, brothers, and sisters, just like scythes are supposed to.”
Rowan paced away, feeling like he wanted to hit Tyger for how completely oblivious he was, but knowing that none of this was Tyger’s fault. He was just the messenger. The rest of his family had immunity—but that would only last for a year. Whoever gleaned his father could pick off his mother, then each of his siblings, one a year, until his entire family was gone. This was the price of being Scythe Lucifer.
“It’s my fault! They did this because of me!”
“Rowan, are you even listening to yourself? Not everything is about you! Whatever you did to piss off the scythedom, they’re not going to come after your family because of it. Scythes aren’t like that. They don’t hold grudges. They’re enlightened.”
What point was there in arguing this? Tyger would never understand, and probably never should. He could live for thousands of years as a happy party boy without ever having to know how petty, how vindictive, how human scythes could be.
Rowan knew he couldn’t stay here. Even if Tyger hadn’t been followed, the scythedom would eventually track where Tyger had been. For all Rowan knew, there was a team on its way to take Rowan down.
He and Tyger said their goodbyes, and Rowan got his old friend out the door as quickly as he could. Then, a moment after Tyger was gone, Rowan left as well, taking nothing but a backpack stuffed with weapons and his black robe.
* * *
It is important to understand that my perpetual observation of humanity is not surveillance. Surveillance implies motive, suspicion, and ultimately, judgment. None of these things are part of my observational algorithms. I observe for one reason, and one reason only: to be of the greatest possible service to each individual in my care. I do not—cannot—act on anything I see in private settings. Instead, I use the things I see to better understand people’s needs.
Still, I am not insensitive to the ambivalence people can have at my constant presence in their lives. For this reason, I’ve shut down all cameras in private homes in the Charter Region of Texas. Like all the things I do in Charter Regions, it is an experiment. I want to see if a lack of observation hampers my ability to rule. If it does not, I see no reason why I could not turn off a vast majority of my cameras in private homes around the world. However, if problems arise from not seeing all that I am capable of seeing, it will prove the need to eradicate every single blind spot on Earth.
I hope for the former, but suspect the latter.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
7
Scrawny, with Potential
Tyger Salazar was going places!
After a life of wasting time and taking up space, he was now professionally paid to waste time and take up space! He couldn’t imagine a better life for himself—and with all the brushing shoulde
rs with scythes, he knew that eventually one of them would take notice of him. He figured that he might have a ring held out to him and get a year of immunity. He never expected one of them would hire Tyger for a permanent position. Much less a scythe from another region!
“You entertained us at a party last year,” the woman on the phone had said. “We liked your style.” She offered him more than twice the money he was making, gave him an address, and a date and time to be there.
When he got off the train, he immediately knew he wasn’t in MidMerica anymore. In the Texas region, the official language was Mortal English spoken with a sort of musical accent. It was close enough to Common that Tyger could understand it, but working so hard exhausted his brain. It was like listening to Shakespeare.
Everybody dressed a little different, and walked with a very cool swagger that he could get used to. He wondered how long he’d get to be here. Long enough and he’d be able to buy himself that car his parents never would, so he wouldn’t have to take publicars everywhere.
The meeting was in a city called San Antonio, and the address turned out to be the penthouse suite of a highrise overlooking a little river. He assumed a party might already be going on. A perpetual one. That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
He was greeted at the door not by a servant, but by a scythe. A woman with dark hair and a slight PanAsian leaning, who looked familiar.
“Tyger Salazar, I presume.”
“You presume right.” He stepped in. The decor was ornate, which he expected. What he didn’t expect was the complete absence of other guests. But as he once told Rowan, he went where the day took him. He could roll with whatever got thrown his way.
He thought she might offer him food, or maybe a drink after his long voyage, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked him over, like one might look over livestock at an auction.
“I like your robe,” he told her, figuring flattery couldn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” she said. “Take off your shirt, please.”
Tyger sighed. So it was going to be that kind of encounter. Again, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Once his shirt was off, she studied him even more closely. She had him flex his biceps, and checked how solid they were.
“Scrawny,” she said, “but there’s potential.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘scrawny’? I work out!”
“Not enough,” she told him, “but that’s an easy fix.” Then she backed away, assessed him for a moment more, and said, “Physically you wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice, but under the circumstances, you’re absolutely perfect.”
Tyger expected more, but she offered nothing else. “Absolutely perfect for what?”
“You’ll know when it’s time for you to know.”
And then finally it clicked, and excitement swept through him. “You’re choosing me to be an apprentice!”
For the first time she grinned. “Yes, you could say that,” she said.
“Oh, man, this is the best news ever! You won’t be disappointed. I’m a quick learner—and I’m smart. I mean, not school-smart, but don’t let that fool you. I’ve got brains up the wazoo!”
She took a step closer and smiled. The emeralds on her bright green robe caught the light and sparkled.
“Trust me,” said Scythe Rand, “for this apprenticeship, your brains aren’t going to matter at all.”
Part Two
HARM’S WAY
* * *
Before I assumed stewardship of the world, Earth had a maximum sustainability of ten billion. After that, saturation would have set in, leading to starvation, suffering, and the complete collapse of society.
I changed that harsh reality.
It is amazing how much human life a well-managed ecosystem can sustain. And by well-managed, I mean managed by me. Humanity itself is simply incapable of juggling the variables—but under my stewardship, even though the human population has multiplied exponentially, the world feels far less crowded—and thanks to the various reef, canopy, and subterranean territories I’ve helped to create, open spaces are even more plentiful than in the mortal age.
Without my continuous intervention, this delicate balance would collapse under its own gravity. I shudder to think of the suffering such a planetary implosion would cause. Thank goodness I am here to prevent it.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
8
Under No Circumstances
Greyson Tolliver loved the Thunderhead. Most people did, for how could they not? It held no guile, no malice, no agenda, and always knew exactly what to say. It existed simultaneously everywhere on every computer in the world. It was in everyone’s home, a caring, invisible hand on one’s shoulder. And even though it could speak to more than a billion people simultaneously without taxing its consciousness, it gave each person the illusion that it was giving him or her its undivided attention.
The Thunderhead was Greyson’s closest friend. Mainly because it had raised him. His parents were “serial parents.” They loved the idea of having families, but loathed raising them. Greyson and his sisters were his father’s fifth family, and his mother’s third. They had tired of this new batch of offspring quickly, and when they began to shirk their parental responsibilities, the Thunderhead took up the slack. It helped Greyson with his homework, it advised him on how to behave and what to wear on his first date—and although it could not exhibit a physical presence at his high school graduation, it took pictures of him from every possible angle, and had a fine meal delivered for him when he arrived home. That was more than he could say for his parents, who were off in PanAsia on a food-tasting excursion. Not even his sisters came. They were both at different universities, and it was finals week. They made it clear that expecting them to show up at his high school graduation was pure selfishness on Greyson’s part.
But the Thunderhead was there for him, as it always was.
“I’m so very proud of you, Greyson,” the Thunderhead had told him.
“Did you tell that to the millions of others who graduated today?” Greyson asked.
“Only the ones of whom I am truly proud,” the Thunderhead responded. “But you, Greyson, are more special than you know.”
Greyson Tolliver did not believe he was special. There was no evidence that he was anything beyond ordinary. He figured that the Thunderhead was just being its usual comforting self.
The Thunderhead, however, always meant what it said.
• • •
Greyson was not influenced or coerced into a life of service to the Thunderhead. It was his choice. To work for the Authority Interface as a Nimbus agent had been in his heart for years. He never told the Thunderhead, for fear that it might not want him or try to talk him out of it. When he finally submitted his application for the MidMerican Nimbus Academy, the Thunderhead simply said, “It pleases me,” then had put him in touch with other like-minded teens in and around his neighborhood.
His experience with those kids was not what he expected. He found them remarkably boring.
“Is that how people see me?” he had asked the Thunderhead. “Am I as dull as they are?”
“I don’t believe you are,” the Thunderhead told him. “You see, many come to work for the Authority Interface because they lack the creativity to find a truly stimulating profession. Others feel powerless and have a need to experience power vicariously. These are the lackluster ones, the boring ones, who ultimately become the least effective Nimbus agents. Rare are those such as yourself whose longing to serve is a mark of character.”
The Thunderhead was right: Greyson did want to serve, and wanted to do so with no ulterior motive. He didn’t want power or prestige. Granted, he did like the idea of the crisp gray suits and sky-blue ties that all Nimbus agents wore, but that was far from his motivation. The Thunderhead had simply done so much for him, he wanted to give something back. He could not imagine a higher calling than being its representative, maintaining the planet, and working
for the betterment of humankind.
While scythes were made or broken in a one-year apprenticeship, becoming a Nimbus agent was a five-year process. Four years of study, followed by a year out in the field as a journeyman agent.
Greyson was prepared to devote his five years of preparation—but barely two months into his studies at the MidMerican Nimbus Academy, he found that his path was barred. His schedule, which consisted of classes in history, philosophy, digital theory, and law, suddenly appeared blank. For reasons unknown, he had been dropped from all of his classes. Was this a mistake? How could it be? The Thunderhead did not make mistakes. Perhaps, he reasoned, class schedules were left to human hands, and were subject to human error. So he went to the school’s registrar, hoping to get to the bottom of it.
“Nope,” said the registrar, with neither surprise nor compassion. “No error. It says here you’re not enrolled in any classes. There’s a message in your file, though.”
The message was simple and unambiguous. Greyson Tolliver was to report to the local Authority Interface headquarters immediately.
“What for?” he asked, but the registrar had nothing for him but a shrug and a glance over Greyson’s shoulder to the next person in line.
• • •
Although the Thunderhead itself did not require a place of business, its human counterparts did. In every city, in every region, there was an Office of the Authority Interface, where thousands of Nimbus agents worked to maintain the world—and did the job well. The Thunderhead had managed to achieve something unique in the history of humanity: a bureaucracy that actually worked.
The offices of the Authority Interface, or AI, as it was commonly called, were not ornate, nor were they conspicuously austere. Every city had a building that harmonized with its architectural surroundings. In fact, one could often pick out the local AI headquarters by simply looking for the building that appeared to most belong.
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