The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,137

said.

But he would not be deterred. “I’m the Toll, and the Toll goes where he pleases,” Greyson said. “Besides, I want to be there when Scythe Anastasia changes the world!”

The Thunderhead said nothing either way. It didn’t influence him against it; it didn’t suggest that it was the right thing to do. Or perhaps it wasn’t commenting because it involved a scythe. It was only when Greyson was alone again that the Thunderhead spoke to him. It wasn’t about their destination, however. The conversation took an entirely different direction.

“I sensed a change in your physiology as you spoke to the salvage captain,” the Thunderhead said.

“Why is that your business?” Greyson snapped.

“It was just an observation,” the Thunderhead said calmly.

“With all your years of studying human nature, don’t you know when you’re intruding into my privacy?”

“I do know,” said the Thunderhead. “And I also know when you want that privacy intruded upon.”

As always the Thunderhead was right, and it ticked Greyson off. He wanted to talk about it. To process it. But of course there was no one he could talk to but the Thunderhead.

“I believe she had an effect on you,” it said.

“She? Isn’t it presumptuous of you to call Jeri ‘she’?”

“Not at all. The sky above the cave is clear and full of stars.”

Then the Thunderhead explained to Greyson how Jeri saw gender, a thing as varied as the wind and ephemeral as clouds.

“That’s … poetic,” said Greyson, “but impractical.”

“Who are we to judge such things?” the Thunderhead said. “And besides, the human heart is rarely practical.”

“Now that sounds judgmental…”

“Quite the opposite,” said the Thunderhead. “I long for the luxury of being impractical. It would add … texture … to my existence.”

It was only later, after Greyson had taken his earpiece out and he was lying in bed, that it occurred to him why his conversation with Jeri Soberanis felt so inviting and unsettling at the same time.

Hello, Greyson, Jeri had said. Nothing strange about that. Except that it echoed something deeper. They were the same words, the same tone of voice the Thunderhead had used the moment it began speaking to him again.

“The Mars colony was reduced to a radioactive crater long before I was born – but for those of you who are pushing a hundred, you’ll probably remember the public outrage. After the moon, and then Mars, people felt that colonization was just too dangerous. People turned against the idea of off-world solutions. Or should I say were turned against it, by some very loud and opinionated news feeds – the biggest being OneGlobe Media. Ever heard of it? No? That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore. It was there for one reason and one reason only – to sway public opinion, so that the Thunderhead’s decision to stop all space colonization efforts would appear to be a response to public outcry – and not a response to repeated scythe attacks on those efforts.

“And, to add insult to injury, one of the key scythes responsible was rapidly rising in the ranks of the MidMerican scythedom. Even the Patron Historic he had chosen was a secret snub.

“Dr. Robert Goddard, the rocket scientist who made space flight possible.

“But the Thunderhead wasn’t done yet. It was determined to try one final time to establish an off-world presence. Not a lunar or planetary colony, but an orbital one. Closer to home. Easier to directly oversee.

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what happened next.”

39

Never Enough Mirrors

Scythe Alighieri wasn’t a day over thirty, but it was his twenty-ninth time being there, as he set his age back often. In reality, he was pushing 260. He barely looked human anymore. Such was the result of turning so many corners. One’s skin became shiny and stretched. Underlying bone structure eroded like river stones, becoming smooth and rounded, losing definition.

He spent a lot of his time gazing at his reflection and grooming himself. He didn’t see what others might have. Scythe Alighieri saw ageless beauty in himself. Like a statue of Adonis. Like Michelangelo’s David. There could never be enough mirrors.

He had no contact with other scythes, never attended conclave anymore, and was not missed. No scythedom had claimed him for decades, so he didn’t show up on any High Blade’s list. He was, by and large, forgotten by the world, which was fine by him. The world had gotten too complicated for his taste. He lived the kind of isolated life that kept current events as far from his dwelling as the sea