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 footprint 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