The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,126

off. He was about to throw it in anger, but then he heard, faint and tinny, the Thunderhead’s voice still speaking through it.

“You are a terrible person,” the Thunderhead said. “You are a wonderful person.”

“Well, which is it?” Greyson demanded.

And the response, as faint as faint could be, came back to him – not as an answer, but as another question.

“Why can’t you see that the answer is both?”

That evening, Greyson put back on his vestments and prepared to address the Tonists. To grant them forgiveness. He had done this many times before, but no sibilant Tonists he faced had ever done something as heinous as these.

“I don’t want to forgive them,” he told Mendoza before he went out.

“Granting them absolution brings them into the fold,” Mendoza said. “It serves our needs. And besides,” he added, “it’s not Greyson Tolliver forgiving them, it’s the Toll. Which means your personal feelings shouldn’t even come into play.”

When Greyson put his earpiece back in, he asked the Thunderhead if Mendoza was right. Did it want Greyson to forgive them? Or, more to the point, did the Thunderhead forgive them? Was it so magnanimous that it could even excuse their curate?

“Ah,” the Thunderhead said sadly. “That poor man…”

“Poor man? That monster doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

“You didn’t know him as I did. As with all others, I watched him from birth. I saw the forces in his life that shaped him, turning him into the bitter, misguided, self-righteous man he became. Thus, I mourn his gleaning just as I mourn all others.”

“I could never be as forgiving as you,” Greyson said.

“You misunderstand; I don’t forgive him – I merely understand him.”

“Well, then,” Greyson said, still a bit belligerent from their earlier conversation, “you’re not a god, are you? Because a god forgives.”

“I never claimed to be a god,” the Thunderhead responded. “I am merely godlike.”

The Tonists were waiting for the Toll when he came out. They had been waiting for hours. They probably would have waited through the night.

“Don’t try to speak,” he told them when he saw them attempting to greet him. “Your tongues have no muscle memory. It will take some time until you teach yourselves to speak again.”

By the way they looked to him with awe and reverence, he knew that their violent deeds were behind them. They were no longer Sibilant. And when the Toll forgave them, they cried tears of true remorse for what they had done, and tears of pure joy at having been given a second chance. Now they would follow the Toll wherever he led. And a good thing, too. Because, as it would turn out, he’d need to lead them into darkness before he could lead them into light.

We have now laid the groundwork for scythedoms in each of the world’s regions, all reporting to us, so that we may maintain order and consistency of vision. We have even begun plans for a city that exists separate and apart from any region, so we may maintain impartiality. Prometheus is now Supreme Blade, and there’s talk of “Grandslayers” to represent each continent. Oh, but we’ve gotten full of ourselves! Secretly, I hope our tenure as the arbiters of death is brief and that we are quickly deemed obsolete.

The cloud has announced plans for a lunar colony – the first step toward expanding our footprint in the universe. If successful, it will provide far better population control than we scythes can provide. I, for one, would much rather live in a world where the surplus population can leave, rather than be denied its very existence.

The question remains, however, can we trust artificial intelligence with our future? Although I do have my concerns, I believe we can. The few remaining “world leaders” do nothing but malign the sentient cloud. In fact, they’ve begun calling it a thunderhead, as if rebranding it as a threatening storm will turn people against it. In the end they will fail, because their time is through. Whatever they choose to call it, the cloud’s benevolence speaks louder than the words of petty politicians and tyrants.

—From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci

37

Nothing Good About It

When Jerico Soberanis awoke from revival, Scythe Anastasia was in a chair beside the bed, sleeping with her knees tucked up to her chest. Fetal position, thought Jeri. No – more like a protective stance, like a tortoise in its shell. Did she feel so threatened that she needed to contract into herself when she slept, on guard even