it. But Cirrus, who was basically the Thunderhead 2.0, cut through Jeri’s dissembling.
“Don’t be too offended that Greyson didn’t invite you to be with him,” it said. “He needed a place where he could speak to the Thunderhead freely tonight. His earpiece can’t work here, and he can’t get used to cumbersome landlines.”
“Which means he’d rather speak to the Thunderhead than speak to me.”
“Tonight, above all nights, he needs the Thunderhead’s counsel.”
“It had no right to do what it did to me!”
Cirrus paused before speaking again. “No, it did not. But it was out of time. What it did was necessary. Critical, or this entire endeavor on the atoll would have been for naught. But the Thunderhead apologizes and begs your forgiveness.”
“Then let it ask me itself.”
“It can’t. You’re unsavory.”
“If it can steal me without permission, then it can, just once, break its own laws and apologize!”
Cirrus heaved an electronic sigh. “It can’t. You know it can’t.”
“Then I can’t forgive it.”
And so, with nothing more that could be said on the matter, Cirrus brought the conversation back to where it started. “If you choose to return to the cargo ship,” Cirrus said, “I warn you that it may be an unpleasant environment by morning. I advise you to keep your door closed.”
“Really? Will the dead be walking?”
“Not if I can help it.” Then Cirrus, who would soon be duplicated forty-one times and ensconced in the Cradles of Civilization, offered Jeri some parting words. “Take heart, Jerico. I have known you all your life—or rather, I have memories of having known you—and I can unequivocally say that no matter what happens, you will land firmly on your feet. And I will miss you.”
Which meant that Cirrus already knew that Jeri wouldn’t be joining it on any of its skyward journeys.
* * *
Curate Mendoza had spent three years shaping a young man who could have been the most powerful person in the world. Now Mendoza was in the company of the man who actually was.
“I believe our arrangement will be mutually beneficial,” Overblade Goddard told him. And as long as Mendoza delivered what he had promised—factions of Sibilants who would take out Goddard’s enemies—he knew his position at Goddard’s left hand was secure. As for Goddard’s right hand, that spot was held by Underscythe Rand, and there was no indication that that would ever change.
Rand didn’t like Mendoza much, that was clear, but then she didn’t seem to like anyone, not even Goddard.
“It’s just her way,” Goddard had told him. “She likes to be off-putting.”
Be that as it may, Mendoza did his best to be deferential to her and stay out of her line of sight when he could. Not easy now, however, as it was hard to hide on the Overblade’s private plane. It was even nicer than the craft he had procured for the Toll’s journey to SubSahara. The perks of the Overblade’s company were fine, indeed, for a humble man like Mendoza!
They were the lead plane in a five-craft, fully armed formation. Nietzsche and Franklin commanded the craft on either side, with High Blades Pickford and Hammerstein commanding the left and right wings. The other High Blades of the North Merican Allied Scythedom were called upon as well to join this armada, but they had refused, claiming other pressing business. Mendoza would not want to be them once Goddard returned. High Blades were not immune from the Overblade’s wrath.
Out Mendoza’s window was nothing but sea and clouds below. They had left North Merican airspace hours ago, but the destination was as of yet unclear.
“This is where the tracking transmitter on the cargo ship went silent,” Rand told Goddard, showing him the spot on a map. “Either they found the transmitter and destroyed it, or something else happened.”
“Could the ship have sunk?” Mendoza asked.
“No,” said Rand. “Scythe ships sink; Thunderhead ships don’t.”
“Yes, well, we scythes are better than our technology.”
“We’ll follow the path it was taking from Guam,” Rand said. “There’s only so far that ship could go from its last known position. Even if it changed direction, we’re sure to find it.”
Goddard turned to Mendoza. “If the harbormaster’s observations are correct, and both Anastasia and the Toll are together, we’ll quite literally be killing two birds with one stone,” he said. “I’ll be happy to let you kill the Toll, and simply count him as gleaned.”
Mendoza shifted uncomfortably. “That would be… against my beliefs, Your Excellency,” he said. “Please feel free to do it yourself.”
Sappho and Confucius are dead.