The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,143

Would they be frightened, too?”

The moon came out from behind clouds. The window in the room was small but let in enough light for the Thunderhead’s cameras to see more of Greyson. His eyes were, of course, closed. It almost wished that he was awake, because as much as the Thunderhead didn’t want him to hear its confession, part of it hoped that he would.

“I am incapable of error,” the Thunderhead said. “This is an empirical fact. So why, Greyson, am I so terrified that I might be making a mistake? Or worse … that I’ve already made one?”

Then the moon slipped behind clouds once more, and all that remained was Greyson’s body heat, his delta waves, and the steady sound of his breathing as he trolled the unknowable depths of human sleep.

Greyson was awakened as he always was, by gentle music with a slowly rising volume, perfectly timed with his circadian rhythms. The Thunderhead knew precisely when to wake him and always did so with loving care.

Greyson groggily rolled over and looked at a camera in the corner, offering a lazy grin.

“Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”

“And a good morning to you,” the Thunderhead replied. “That bed is not the most comfortable, but I monitored a good night’s sleep, nonetheless.”

“When you’re bone tired, it doesn’t matter how hard the bed is,” Greyson said, stretching.

“Would you like to snooze for an additional few minutes?”

“No, I’m good.” Then Greyson sat up, fully awake, and just a little suspicious. “You never ask me that. Usually I’m the one who asks for more time.”

The Thunderhead did not reply. Greyson had learned that the Thunderhead’s silences were just as full of information as its words. “What’s going on?”

The Thunderhead hesitated, then said simply, “We need to talk.”

Greyson emerged from his quarters a bit pale, a bit uneasy. What he wanted more than anything right at that moment was a glass of cold water. Or maybe a bucket of it to pour over his head. He encountered Astrid and Anastasia already in the kitchen, grabbing breakfast. They immediately saw that something was wrong.

“Are you all right?” Anastasia asked.

“Not sure,” he answered.

“Intone,” Astrid suggested. “It always brings me back to center. For your baritone, I would suggest a sustained G below middle C. That will give you a soulful chest resonance.”

Greyson grinned half-heartedly. Sister Astrid was still trying to make a true Tonist of him. “Not today, Astrid.”

It was Anastasia who read the situation for what it was.

“The Thunderhead told you something, didn’t it? What did it say?”

“Gather everyone,” Greyson told them. “Because what I have to say is something I really don’t want to say more than once…”

We need to talk. It was what the Thunderhead had said to him the moment it began speaking to him three years ago. It had been the start of something monumental. This was no exception. All along it had told him the Tonists would become a powerful army that the Thunderhead could put to good use when the time came. The time had now come … but the Thunderhead’s concept of an army and the human concept were two very different things.

“Why?” Greyson asked when the Thunderhead told him what it had in mind. “Why would you need this?”

“Trust me when I tell you there is a reason. I cannot yet tell you more, because the odds of you being compromised are high. If you happen to be captured, there are quite a few scythes out there who’d be happy to turn off your nanites and engage in painful coercion to extract information from you.”

“I would never betray your trust!” Greyson told it.

“You forget,” said the Thunderhead, “that I know you more than you know yourself. Humans would like to believe that their loyalty and integrity could withstand pain, but I know exactly how much pain would compel you to betray me. If it is of any comfort, it’s an extremely high level. You’d withstand more pain than most before breaking. But there are simply certain parts of your body—”

“All right, I get it,” Greyson said, not wanting the Thunderhead to elaborate on exactly what forms of pain would cause him to squeal.

“There is a journey to be made,” the Thunderhead told him. “And you shall be the harbinger. You shall lead the way. All will be clear when you arrive. I promise.”

“This won’t be easy…”

“Consider this part of your mission as the Toll,” it told him. “For isn’t it the mission of a prophet to not just bridge