The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,97

something.”

Jeri heaved a sigh, but only to prepare her for the answer. “Yes, there is news. But nothing I’m going to share, no matter how much you ask me.”

A progression of emotions passed over her. The stages of grief all played out on her face in a matter of seconds. Denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, and, finally, a resolving into acceptance.

“You won’t tell me because there’s nothing I can do,” she said, anticipating the reasons Jeri would give, “and it would distract me from what I need to do.”

“Do you hate me for it?” Jeri asked.

“I could say yes, just out of spite. But no, Jeri, I don’t hate you. But… can you at least tell me if he’s still alive?”

“Yes,” Jeri said. “Yes, he is. I hope you can find comfort in that.”

“And will he be alive tomorrow?” she asked.

“Not even the Thunderhead can be sure about tomorrow,” Jeri told her. “Let’s be satisfied with today.”

30 Burnt Offering

“Hello, Tyger.”

“Hi,” said Tyger Salazar’s memory construct. “Do I know you?”

“Yes and no,” said Scythe Rand. “I’ve come to tell you that Scythe Lucifer’s been caught.”

“Scythe Lucifer… isn’t that the one who’s been killing other scythes?”

“It is,” said Rand. “And you know him.”

“Doubt it,” said the construct. “I know some twisted people, but nobody that twisted.”

“It’s your friend, Rowan Damisch.”

The construct paused and then laughed. “Nice try,” it said. “Did Rowan put you up to this? Rowan!” it called. “Where are you hiding? Come on out.”

“He’s not here.”

“Don’t try to tell me that he’s killing people—he never even got to be a scythe—they booted his ass out and gave it to that girl instead.”

“He’s going to be executed tomorrow,” Rand said.

The construct hesitated, furrowed its brow. They were so well programmed, these constructs. They compiled the memories of every facial expression of the subject that had ever been recorded. The representation was sometimes so true to life, it was unnerving.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” said Tyger’s construct. “Well, you can’t let it happen! You have to stop it!”

“It’s out of my hands.”

“Then put it back in your hands! I know Rowan better than anyone—if he did what you say he did, then he had a good reason. You can’t just glean him!” Then the construct began looking around as if it was aware it was in a limited world. A virtual box that it wanted to get out of. “It’s wrong!” it said. “You can’t do this!”

“What do you know about right and wrong?” snapped Rand. “You’re nothing but a foolish dim-witted party boy!”

It glared at her in fury. The micro-pixels of its image increased the percentage of red in its face. “I hate you,” it said. “Whoever the hell you are, I hate you.”

Ayn quickly hit a button and ended the conversation. Tyger’s memory construct vanished. As always, it would not remember this conversation. As always, Ayn would.

* * *

“If you’re going to glean him, why not just glean him?” Scythe Rand asked Goddard, doing her best not to sound as frustrated as she was. There were many reasons for her frustration. First of all, a stadium was a difficult venue to secure from their enemies—and they did have enemies. Not just the old-guard scythes, but everyone from Tonists, to scythedoms who had shunned Goddard, to the disgruntled loved ones from mass gleanings.

It was just the two of them in Goddard’s private plane. Now that the motorcade was nearing its destination after nearly a week of winding through its prolonged victory lap, he and Rand were flying to meet it—a flight as short as Rowan Damisch’s journey was long. Like Goddard’s rooftop chalet, the plane was retrofitted with mortal-age weaponry. A series of missiles that hung from each wing. He would regularly fly low over communities that he deemed defiant. He never used the missiles to glean, but just like those rooftop cannons, they were a reminder that he could if he chose to.

“If you want a public display,” Ayn suggested, “make the gleaning more controlled. Maybe a broadcast from a small, undisclosed location. Why do you have to make a spectacle of everything?”

“Because I enjoy spectacles—and there’s no reason needed beyond that.”

But of course there was a bigger reason. Goddard wanted the world to know that he had personally apprehended and executed the greatest public enemy of the post-mortal age. Not only to raise Goddard’s image among common people, but to gain the admiration of scythes who might be on the fence about him. Everything with Goddard was either strategic or