The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,123
their resistance. Confucius, Elizabeth, Sappho, and King insist that we are simply not ready for such a responsibility any more than we were ready for immortality – but the alternative they propose terrifies me, for if we implement their plan, it will be a genie out of the bottle. Out of our control forever. I therefore stand with Prometheus and the others. We must establish an honorable worldwide society of death mongers. We shall call ourselves scythes and will create a global scythedom.
The sentient cloud, which will have nothing to do with issues of life or death, supports it, and people will come to see the wisdom of it in time. As for the four dissenters among us, they will have to accept the voice of the majority, so that we present a unified front to the world.
Still, I wonder which is worse: to mimic nature in its cruel brutality, or to take it upon ourselves, imperfect as we are, to insert into death the kindness and compassion that nature lacks.
The four in opposition argue for nature as a model, but I cannot advocate for it. Not while I still have a conscience.
—From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci
36
Who Do You Serve?
Although the Thunderhead had predicted it, Greyson didn’t need the Thunderhead to tell him that the first repercussions from the Mile High gleaning would be from sibilant Tonists. The only question was where would it happen? Would it be against Goddard directly, or would it be somewhere less prepared for an onslaught of violent zealots?
He had his answer when he saw the first images of the burned ruins of the SubSaharan palace.
“Violence begets violence,” Curate Mendoza commented. “This clearly calls for a change in our approach, don’t you agree?”
Greyson couldn’t help but feel that he had failed. For over two years, he had been wrestling Sibilants into line, getting them to shed their extreme ways, but he had never made it to SubSahara. This might not have happened if he had done a better job.
“Well,” said Mendoza, “if we had our own personal mode of transportation, we could have moved more quickly – tackled more problems in more regions.”
“Fine,” Greyson said. “You win. Get us a jet and fly us to SubSahara. I want to find these Tonists before they make things even worse.”
As it turned out, that was the only way for them to get into the region. After the attack, the SubSaharan scythedom clamped down, extending way beyond its authority, and turned the region into something of a mortal-age police state.
“If the Thunderhead will not do its job and apprehend these criminals, then it falls upon the scythes of SubSahara to take control,” they proclaimed, and since scythes, by law, could do anything they wanted, they couldn’t be stopped from taking control, enforcing curfews, and gleaning anyone who resisted.
Tonists were officially forbidden from traveling to SubSahara, and all commercial flights were monitored by the scythedom in a way they hadn’t been monitored since mortal days. The tragedy of all this was that the SubSaharan scythedom had been a gentle and tolerant region – but now, thanks to the Sibilants, it was aligning with Goddard, who promised worldwide retribution against Tonists. There was no question the new SubSaharan High Blade, whoever it might be, would have a robe that sparkled with jewels.
The SubSaharan scythedom had dispatched dozens of regiments of the BladeGuard to patrol the streets of Port Remembrance, and every other city in the region, as well as beating paths through the wilderness in search of the Tonists who had murdered their High Blade, but they had no luck. No one knew where the Sibilants were hiding.
But the Thunderhead did.
And contrary to popular opinion, the Thunderhead was not shirking its responsibility to bring justice. It was merely going about it a different way. By means of a luxury jet with vertical landing capability.
“I could get used to this,” Morrison commented as he luxuriated in a plush seat.
“Don’t,” said Greyson. Although he suspected that once you began traveling in such a craft, you wouldn’t easily part with it. There were four passengers, and not a pilot among them. That was fine. The Thunderhead knew exactly where to take them.
“You could say we’re being moved by the Holy Triad,” Sister Astrid said.
“Actually no,” said Morrison, “because I only count two of the three: The Toll” – he gestured to Greyson – “and the Thunder” – he indicated the automated cockpit – “but there’s no Tone.”