The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,164

need in the holds, why do you need crews?”

“Because this is your journey, not mine,” Cirrus told them. “Just as you, a human, had to approve the plan; just as humans have to bear the dead to the ships. The living must make this journey; otherwise, the journey means nothing. You would become passive participants in your own future, and that must never happen. The Thunderhead and I are your servants, and perhaps even your safety nets—but we must never, never be your keepers, or be the driving force over your lives, lest we fall into self-importance. Therefore, if at any point there are no living humans left onboard, I will terminate. This is what the Thunderhead and I have decided. This is how it shall be.”

“And that’s the only way?” Loriana asked.

“No,” admitted Cirrus. “But we’ve run millions of simulations and have determined that it’s the best way.”

Cirrus told them that no one on the atoll would be forced to go. Anyone who wished to stay, could stay. Anyone who wished to leave would be accommodated—up to thirty souls per ship. Each ship would have its own Cirrus, as wise and benevolent as the Thunderhead. The Cirri would be both shepherd and servant. They would ease humanity’s ascent to the stars.

And now that it had begun to sink in, the questions came, one on top of the other. How would they survive in such close quarters? What would happen to children born during the journey? What if the living population on the ship grew too large?

Greyson put up his hands. “Everyone, stop!” he said. “I’m sure Cirrus and the Thunderhead have considered every possible scenario. And besides, these aren’t questions we have to answer now.”

“Agreed,” said Cirrus. “We will traverse that expanse when we come to it.”

“But I still don’t get it,” said Morrison. “Why Tonists?”

“Because,” said Astrid, smug as could be, “we are the chosen ones! We have been selected by the Tone, Toll, and Thunder to populate the heavens!”

And Cirrus said, “Actually, no.”

Astrid’s haughty countenance began to crack. “But the Thunder told us to bring our dead here! Which means the Tone chose us for deliverance!”

“Actually, no,” said Cirrus. “It was a terrible thing that scythes have targeted your faith. The Thunderhead could not stop that. And yes, it’s true that those gleaned Tonists provided 41,948 human vessels. But that is where your contribution must end.”

“I… I don’t understand,” said Astrid.

And so Cirrus laid all the remaining cards on the table. “The gleaned are gleaned. It would be fundamentally wrong to grant resurrection from gleaning. No one in the post-mortal age has ever been granted that, so why should they? But there is a fair and equitable compromise. The Thunderhead and I have within us the full and complete memory constructs of every human being who has lived over the past two hundred years. Of those, we have selected 41,948 of the most suitable historical identities for this colonization effort. The best of humanity, if you will. The minds of the noblest post-mortals who ever lived.”

Poor Astrid looked bloodless. She sat down, trying to absorb this news. The devastating collapse of all she held true.

“When the bodies are revived,” said Cirrus, “they will be given the memories and minds of those chosen individuals.”

“And what of the Tonists who lost their lives?” Astrid said slowly, hollowly.

“It will still be their bodies—it will still be their spirits, if indeed such things exist. But that part of who they were will be conjoined to entirely different identities.”

“You’re saying they’ll all be supplanted?”

“Implanted,” corrected Cirrus. “They have already been gleaned, which means who they were, by the statutes of this world, has been taken from them lawfully. Therefore, implanting is the most magnanimous, most just, choice.”

Greyson could feel Astrid’s pain like an open wound. Jeri took Astrid’s hand for comfort. Morrison looked mildly amused.

“Well, maybe there are Tonists among the people the Thunderhead chose,” said Loriana, always looking for that silver lining. “Isn’t that right, Cirrus?”

“Actually, no,” Cirrus said. “Please understand, there were many difficult parameters to meet. It was critical that the Thunderhead choose only those who would work well in a diversified environment, and not jeopardize the success of a colony. Unfortunately, Tonists are not known for integrating well with others.”

Everyone was silent. Astrid was beyond crestfallen. “But… don’t we get a say?”

“Actually,” said Cirrus, “no.”

* * *

The iron door in the bunker opened on a long, dim hallway with a large control room at the far end—and unlike