The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,135
turned a corner, but Greyson didn’t think so. The young captain didn’t seem to be the type who would set back so far. Still, there was something noble there. Not so much wisdom, but worldliness. Greyson had been all over the world yet saw so little of it in his protective cocoon, he felt like he’d been nowhere at all. But Jerico Soberanis had truly seen the world, and what was more, knew the world. It was something to be admired.
“Scythe Anastasia explained why you called for me,” Soberanis said. “How will this work, Your … What is it they call you?”
“Your Sonority,” Greyson said.
“That’s right, ‘Your Sonority,’” Soberanis said with a smirk.
“You think it’s funny?”
The smirk didn’t leave the salvage captain’s face. “Did you come up with that?”
“No. My chief curate did.”
“He ought to be in advertising.”
“He was.”
The conversation lagged. Not surprising. This was entirely artificial and forced, but it needed to happen.
“Say something,” Greyson told the salvage captain.
“What sort of thing should I say?”
“It doesn’t matter what you talk about. We just need to have a conversation. Then I’ll pose questions to the Thunderhead about the conversation.”
“And?”
“And it will answer.”
Jerico smiled again. Mischievous. Alluring in an odd sort of way. “A game of chess, then, where all the pieces are invisible!”
“If you like,” said Greyson.
“Very well.” Jerico took a moment to consider their subject matter, then said something Greyson was not expecting.
“You and I have something in common.”
“What would that be?”
“We both sacrificed our lives to save Scythe Anastasia.”
Greyson shrugged. “It was only temporary.”
“Still,” said Soberanis, “it takes courage and a remarkable leap of faith to do so.”
“Not really. People splat every day.”
“Yes, but neither of us are that sort. To render ourselves deadish goes against our basic natures. Not everyone would have made the choice we made. This is how I know that you are much more than that outfit you wear.” Soberanis smiled again. This time it was genuine. Honest. Greyson had never met someone with such a wide variety of smiles. Each one spoke volumes.
“Thank you,” said Greyson. “I suppose our mutual admiration of Scythe Anastasia does … bond us in a way.” He waited to see if the Thunderhead would say anything at all, but it didn’t. It was waiting to be asked. Greyson still didn’t know what to ask it.
“I hope this isn’t insulting,” Greyson said, “but I’m not sure how I should address you. As Mr. or Ms. Soberanis?”
The salvage captain glanced around the cavern and became noticeably uncomfortable. “I’m at a bit of a loss. I very rarely find myself in a place where I can’t see the sky.”
“Why should that matter?”
“I suppose it shouldn’t … I am always out of doors, or intentionally near a window or skylight … but here in a cave…”
Greyson still didn’t understand, and the captain became just the tiniest bit miffed. “I will never understand how you binaries are so attached to your birth plumbing. Why should it matter whether a person has ovaries, or testicles, or both?”
“It doesn’t,” Greyson said, feeling a little flustered. “I mean … it does matter for some things … doesn’t it?”
“You tell me.”
Greyson found he couldn’t look away from that gaze. “Maybe … it doesn’t matter as much as I thought?” He hadn’t meant to pose it as a question. But it made no difference, because Jerico was not giving him an answer.
“Why don’t you just call me Jeri, and we don’t have to worry about technicalities.”
“All right! Jeri it is. Let’s begin.”
“I thought we already had. Is it my move?” Jeri feigned moving an imaginary chess piece forward, then said, “I very much like your eyes. I see how they can persuade people to follow you.”
“I don’t think my eyes have anything to do with that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Greyson pressed his earpiece deeper in his ear. “Thunderhead – do my eyes influence people to follow me?”
“Yes, on occasion,” the Thunderhead responded. “They can be helpful when all else fails.”
Greyson found himself blushing in spite of himself. Jeri read it and offered a new variation on that grin.
“So the Thunderhead agrees with me.”
“Maybe.”
Greyson had entered this whole thing assuming he would be in control of the conversation, but clearly he was not. And yet he was beginning to grin as well. He was sure, though, that he only had one grin, and that it looked profoundly stupid.
“Tell me about Madagascar,” he asked, shifting the focus away from himself.
Jeri’s demeanor immediately changed with thoughts of home. “My region is beautiful –