The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,32

Audra Hilliard’s anguish. She had been responsible for many deaths in her time. It was hard to avoid when you’re the head of the Authority Interface. Accidents happened. Unsavories lost their temper during probational meetings, that sort of thing. But in each and every case, the deadish were revived.

This, however, was different. Audra Hilliard was not a scythe; she was not trained and groomed for the responsibility of ending life. Now she had a newfound respect for those strange robed specters—for to bear such a burden on a daily basis took an extraordinary individual. Either someone with no conscience at all, or someone with a conscience so deep and sturdy that its center could still hold in the face of light extinguished.

Audra had sent Loriana away, telling her she needed some time alone. Now she could hear the voices on the island behind her—everyone arguing and lamenting and trying to come to terms with their situation. She could smell the stench of the pyre, and she could see yet another body undulating in the waves, about to wash ashore. Of the 977 people she had convinced to make this journey, only 143 had survived. Yes, as Loriana had said, Audra had not known the extent of the danger. But she could not heft the blame on any shoulders but her own.

Her nanites fought a noble battle to lift her spirits, but they failed, for in this forlorn place, technology held little sway. Had they been anywhere else in the world, the Thunderhead, even in its silence, would have been a safety net, sending intervention to save her from this spiral.

But, as she had already noted, the night was warm, and the sea inviting….

So Audra Hilliard decided it was time to accept that invitation.

* * *

Director Hilliard’s body was never found. But everyone knew what had happened—because more than one person saw her walk into the ocean.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Loriana demanded of a man who had witnessed it.

He just shrugged. “I thought she was going for a swim.”

Loriana was horrified by his stupidity. How could he be so naive? How could he not see the strain the poor woman was under? But then, taking one’s own life was something that simply never happened. Yes, people splatted and engaged in reckless behavior that left them deadish on a regular basis—but it was always with the clear understanding that it would be temporary. Only scythes self-gleaned. If this island had been within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence, an ambudrone would have been dispatched the moment she drowned—for everywhere else in the world there were revival centers, even in the most remote places. She would have been spirited off for revival in a matter of minutes.

Was this what life was like in the mortal age? Feeling the finality of one’s own flesh at every turn? What a terrible way to exist.

Within minutes of confirming that Director Hilliard was indeed gone, Agent Sykora began to push for control. The following morning, Munira came to give Loriana a briefing on what luggage and other useful debris had washed up on shore—and Sykora was furious.

“What are you talking to her for?” he asked Munira. “I’m the next in command now that the director is gone. You should be talking to me.”

And although all of Loriana’s history had trained her to yield to authority, she fought against that nature in herself. “You were fired along with the rest of us, Bob,” she said, thrilling at the insubordination implied in using his first name. “Which means there is no ‘next in command’ anymore.”

He threw her a glare that was intended to intimidate, but he also grew red in the face, which undercut his hard gaze. It made him appear petulant rather than imposing. “We’ll see about that,” he said, and stormed away.

Scythe Faraday had caught the exchange from a distance and came over to Loriana. “I sense he will not make things easy for us,” Faraday noted. “He sees a power vacuum and intends to expand into it.”

“Like a toxic gas,” added Munira. “I didn’t like him from the moment I met him.”

“Sykora always felt he should have been director,” said Loriana, “but the Thunderhead would never have promoted him to the position.” They watched as Sykora gave orders. The more obsequious among the former Nimbus agents were quick to obey.

Faraday crossed his arms. “I have witnessed time and time again the craving for power among those who have had a taste of it,” he said, “but