The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,65
said, “if you’ve given any real thought as to why we’re here on Kwajalein.”
He looked up from his inventory tablet and took a moment to study her. “Clearly the Thunderhead wants to establish a community here, and we are the ones it chose to populate it. Haven’t you realized that yet?”
“Yes, I know,” Loriana agreed, “but why?”
“Why?” Sykora echoed, as if the question were preposterous. “Why does anyone live anywhere? There is no ‘why.’ ”
There was no use pushing beyond that. Loriana realized that this was exactly what the Thunderhead wanted Sykora to think—which was probably part of the reason why he didn’t get the package. If he had, he would have insisted on putting his thumb in the pie and ruining it. It was best if he didn’t even know there was a pie to be messed with.
“Never mind,” Loriana said. “I’m just having a rough day.”
“Everything is as it should be, Agent Barchok,” he said in a feeble attempt to be fatherly. “Just do your job, and leave the big picture to me.”
And so she did. Day after day she sent the messages that needed to be sent and watched as the massive construction effort continued, everyone laboring with the blind, happy diligence of worker bees, ignorant of anything but their specific task, their worlds having gotten so small that they couldn’t see beyond the next rivet to be welded.
Everyone but Loriana, who, unlike Sykora, did see the big picture.
Because in that DNA-protected package were more than just simple documents. There were blueprints and schematics. The plans for everything the Thunderhead was planning to build here.
And, like the package itself, it required her initials, thumbprint, and a drop of blood to signify her approval of the plans. As if she were the administrator of the entire undertaking. It took all day, and a night of tossing and turning, but the following morning, she gave her biological approval.
Now she knew exactly what the Thunderhead was building here. She doubted anyone even suspected yet. But they would. In a year or two, it would be hard to hide it.
And, for the life of her, Loriana didn’t know whether she should be positively joyful, or absolutely terrified.
My fellow WestMerican scythes,
As your High Blade, I stand here to quell your fears and misgivings about our relationship with MidMerica. The simple truth is the world is not the same place it was when we lost Endura. Sibilant Tonists brazenly defy our authority, and the Thunderhead’s continued silence has left billions without direction. What the world needs from us is strength and conviction.
Signing official articles of alignment with the MidMerican scythedom is a step in that direction. High Blade Goddard and I are in perfect agreement that all scythes should be free to glean, unfettered by outdated customs that would limit us.
Goddard and I shall move forward as equals, along with the High Blades of NorthernReach, EastMerica, and Mexiteca, who will shortly be signing their own articles of alignment.
I assure you that we are not surrendering our sovereignty; we are merely affirming our parallel goals: the mutual health and continued enlightenment of our respective scythedoms.
—Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, Vernal Conclave address, May 28th, Year of the Quokka
21 Compromised
More than two years after Loriana Barchok gave DNA approval to the Thunderhead’s secret undertaking, and a year after WestMerica officially aligned with MidMerica, Scythe Sydney Possuelo sat across the breakfast table from Scythe Anastasia, trying to bring her up to speed on the state of the world.
The more she heard, the more diminished her appetite became. Anastasia was not ready to face a world where Goddard was the prevailing power over an entire continent.
“While we in Amazonia have been resisting him,” Possuelo told her, “some other South Merican regions are joining with him—and now I hear he is making serious overtures to PanAsia.”
Possuelo wiped a spot of egg yolk from his mouth, and Citra wondered how he could have an appetite. The best she could do was move food around her plate in an attempt to be gracious. She supposed it must always be this way; once the unthinkable settles into being the norm, you become numb to it. She never wanted to be that numb.
“What does he want that he doesn’t already have?” she asked. “He’s gotten rid of the gleaning quota, so that should satisfy his lust for killing—and now he’s in control of five North Merican regions instead of just one—that should be enough for anyone.”