The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,115
you that there was no cleanup of the site by the Thunderhead? No recovery of the dead?
“Nameless sources suggested it was simply too much effort for the Thunderhead to recover bodies that were too damaged by the vacuum of space and solar radiation to ever be revived.
“But if you dig in the backbrain, you can find a single statement from the Thunderhead. It’s there for anyone to see who cares to look. In fact, it’s the last thing in its file on the lunar disaster. Have you found it yet? If not, I have it pulled up right here. Have a look:
“‘Lunar event beyond Thunderhead jurisdiction. Result of scythe activity.’”
Drawing out what she knew wasn’t just a tactic to hook people – it was a stalling tactic as well, because Anastasia still wasn’t sure where it was going to lead – but each day revealed more hidden truths in the backbrain. She knew she was close to a breakthrough on the Mars disaster, but was completely stymied by the destruction of the NewHope orbital colony.
But the first reveal already had everyone reeling. Tenkamenin was overjoyed, and couldn’t contain his glee at dinner.
“That statement by the Thunderhead in a forgotten file. ‘Result of scythe activity.’ Masterful work!”
“You put us all to shame, dear,” said Makeda. “We searched the backbrain for months and never found that.”
“And walking people through how to find it themselves only makes your case stronger,” Tenka said.
“But I can’t lead them to things I can’t find. There are still so many leads that make no sense. Like the white silk.”
“Explain,” said Makeda. “Maybe we can help.”
Anastasia pulled out her tablet and showed them an image. “This was the last picture taken on the NewHope orbital colony before the disaster. You can see the approaching shuttle in the background – the one that lost control and hit the station, destroying it.” Anastasia tapped on the screen. “The backbrain links the image to tons of things – almost all of them relating to the disaster. News reports, obituaries. Dynamic analysis of the explosion. And then there’s this…”
She showed them an inventory log for a bolt of fabric. Pearl-white silk. “I tracked where it went – about half of it was sold for wedding dresses, some of it was used for drapes – but there are fifteen meters unaccounted for. Nothing’s ever unaccounted for in the Thunderhead’s inventory.”
“Perhaps they were just scraps,” Baba suggested.
“Or,” came a voice from behind them, “perhaps it was used by someone who didn’t need to pay for it.”
It was Jeri, late as usual, but with the insight that made all the difference. There was only one sort of person who could walk away with an expensive fabric, no questions asked, and not have to pay for it. Jeri sat beside Anastasia, who quickly started working on the tablet. Once she had something to look for, the information wasn’t hard to find.
“There are hundreds of scythes known to have robes in shades of white … but only about fifty in silk … and pearl silk? That’s not common at all.” Then she stopped to take in what her screen was telling her, and turned to the others.
“There’s only one scythe who had robes made of that particular fabric,” she said. “Scythe Dante Alighieri.”
While the others didn’t realize the significance, Tenka did, and offered her the broadest of smiles. “How divine the comedy,” he said. “All roads lead to Alighieri…”
“His name is familiar,” said Makeda. “Wasn’t he from Byzantium?”
“TransSiberia, I believe,” said Baba.
Then the moment was shattered by a jarring jangle loud enough to make everyone jump. The sound ceased, then came again.
“Ah, there’s the culprit,” said Jeri, pointing to the antique twentieth-century telephone in the corner of the dining room. It was one of the old phones connected to Tenkamenin’s personal line – which hadn’t rung once since Anastasia had been there. It gave off one more abrasive jangle before Tenkamenin directed one of the servers to pick it up.
“This is His Excellency’s, High Blade Tenkamenin, personal line,” the server said a bit awkwardly. “Whom may I say is calling?”
The server listened, looked alarmed for a moment, but then his expression resolved into annoyance. He hung up and tried to return to serving.
“What was that all about?” asked the High Blade.
“Nothing, Your Excellency.”
“It looked very much like something to me.”
The server sighed. “It was a Tonist, Your Excellency, moaning and groaning like an animal. I don’t know how the miscreant came upon your number.”