The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,10
on their own.
“Once we’re in the Pacific ‘blind spot,’ no one will be tracking us – not even the Thunderhead,” Faraday told her. “No one will know if we live or die.”
It meant that if they did have the bad luck of being struck by a meteorite, or met with some other unexpected catastrophe, no ambudrones would arrive to airlift them to a revival center. They would stay dead just as permanently as mortals once did. Just as irrevocably as if they were gleaned.
It didn’t help that the plane was being flown by Faraday instead of being allowed to fly itself. She trusted the venerable scythe, but still, he was, like everyone else, subject to human error.
This was all her own fault. She was the one who had deduced that the Thunderhead had a blind spot in the South Pacific. A spot filled with islands. Or, more accurately, atolls – ridges of ancient volcanoes that now formed a series of circular island chains. This was an entire region hidden from the Thunderhead – and indeed the world – by the founding scythes. The question was why?
Just three days ago, they had met with Scythes Curie and Anastasia to tell them of their suspicions. “Be careful, Michael,” Scythe Curie had said. The fact that Curie was concerned with what they had uncovered was troubling to Munira. Scythe Curie was fearless … and yet she feared for them. That was no small thing.
Faraday, too, had his misgivings, but he chose not to share them with Munira. Better she see him as stalwart. After that meeting, they had made their way, ever incognito, to WestMerica using commercial transit. The rest of the way would be by private craft; they just had to get themselves a plane. While Faraday was entitled to take anything he wanted, no matter how large or who it belonged to, he rarely did so. It was always his objective to leave as small a footprint as possible on the lives of those he encountered. Unless, of course, his purpose was to glean them. In that case, his footprint would be definitive, and heavy.
He had not gleaned a single soul since faking his own death. As a dead man, he could not take life – because if he did, the scythedom would be alerted, as the scythedom database logged all gleanings by way of his ring. He had considered disposing of it, but chose not to. It was a matter of honor, a matter of pride. He was still a scythe and would not disrespect the ring by parting with it.
He found that he missed gleaning less and less as time went on. Besides, right now he had other things to do.
Once in WestMerica, they spent a day in Angel City, a place that, in mortal days, was the subject of much glittering fascination and personal misery. Now it was just a theme park. Then the following morning, Faraday donned his robe, which he hadn’t worn much since slipping off the scythedom’s radar, went to a marina, and appropriated the best seaplane there: an eight-passenger amphibious jet.
“Make sure we have sufficient fuel cells for a transpacific journey,” he told the manager of the marina. “We intend to depart as soon as possible.”
Faraday was a formidable figure already without the robe. Munira had to admit that with his robe, he was commanding in a way that only the best scythes are.
“I’ll have to talk to the owner,” the marina manager said with a quiver in his voice.
“No,” Faraday calmly told him. “You’ll have to tell the owner after we’ve gone, as I have no time to wait. Inform them that the craft shall be returned once I’m done with it, and I shall pay a sizeable rental fee.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the man, for what else could he say to a scythe?
While Faraday was alert at the controls, Munira kept checking to make sure he wasn’t dozing or losing focus. And she counted every pocket of turbulence they hit on the way. Seven so far.
“If the Thunderhead controls weather, why doesn’t it smooth out the flight channels?” she griped.
“It doesn’t control weather,” Faraday pointed out. “The Thunderhead merely influences it. And besides, the Thunderhead cannot intervene for a scythe, no matter how much his esteemed associate despises choppy air.”
Munira appreciated that he did not refer to her as his assistant anymore. She had proved herself to be much more than that by finding the blind spot in the first place. Curse