The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,162

destined for the heavens,” Astrid had said when she saw those ships, her spirit filled with a transcendental elation the stoic woman had never expressed before. “We Tonists have been chosen to ascend and live again!”

And now they stood on the dock, at the beginning of a strange new venture.

While Sykora nursed his skewered ego, Greyson spoke to the woman whom the Thunderhead had told him to seek out.

She greeted him by shaking his hand a little too long for comfort. It gave him a flash of déjà vu.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Sonority,” Loriana said. “The Thunderhead gave me the plans for this place, and had me approve the project. Why me, I don’t know, but we got it all built, and it’s ready for whatever you and the honorable scythe need it for.”

“Scythes,” corrected Morrison.

“Sorry,” said Loriana. “No disrespect meant, Your Honor. I mean Your Honors.”

“We have almost 42,000 in 160 forty-foot crates, so about 250 in each,” Greyson told Loriana.

“Forgive me, Your Sonority,” Loriana said, “but we’re not exactly in communication with the Thunderhead, as we’re unsavory up the wazoo, so we’re not really sure what you have 42,000 of.”

Greyson took a deep breath. It didn’t occur to him that they wouldn’t know. Just as the Thunderhead had never told him where they were going, it had never told these people what they were receiving. He thought about how to best explain it and realized that he could say it all in one word.

“Colonists,” he told her. “42,000 colonists.”

Loriana just looked at him, blinked a few times, not sure if she had heard him right.

“Colonists…” she repeated.

“Yes,” said the Toll.

“In shipping crates…”

“Yes,” said the Toll.

She thought about all the implications of that – and suddenly it came to her in an epiphany. So much about this project had baffled her. It all made sense now.

A thousand dead colonists in the hold of each ship…

Because the living needed so much more than the dead. Oxygen, food, water, companionship. The only thing the dead needed was cold. Which was the one thing space had to offer.

“All right,” said Loriana, ready for the challenge. “We’ll have to work quickly.” She turned to Sykora, who was close enough to hear their entire exchange and had gone a bit pale. “Bob, make sure everyone knows what the job is, and that everyone is expected to help.”

“Understood,” he said, deferring completely to her authority now.

Loriana made a quick mental calculation. “Thirty-five is our magic number,” she told him. “Everyone will be responsible for transporting thirty-five ‘colonists’ each to a ship. If we start now, we can finish by dawn.”

“I’ll get it done,” said Sykora. “But what about the crews? Aren’t there quarters and supplies on each of those ships designed for a live crew as well?”

Loriana swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said. “I believe we’re the crew.”

Anastasia held her position as Greyson’s right flank. Even so, she knew she was the center of many people’s attention. She almost wished she hadn’t worn her robe – that she’d stayed in street clothes – but Greyson had insisted that both she and Morrison present themselves as scythes.

“Mendoza was right about one thing,” Greyson had told them as he slipped on his silver scapular. “Image is everything. We need these people to be awed if they’re going to do what we need them to.”

But then, as Anastasia stood there on the pier, someone came charging at them from the crowd. Morrison hunched in gleaning position, hands at the ready, and Anastasia pulled out a blade, stepping forward, putting herself between Greyson and this phantom.

“Stay back,” she ordered. “Stay back or you’ll be gleaned.”

It was a wraith of a man. He wore tattered rags and had wild gray hair that was turning white. His beard was an unkempt snarl that billowed around his cragged face, making him look like he was slowly being devoured by a cloud.

The man froze when he saw the blade. He looked from its shiny steel to Anastasia with eyes that were careworn and tormented. Then he said, “Citra, do you not recognize me?”

Scythe Anastasia melted away when she heard him speak her name. She knew who this was the instant he spoke, because whatever else had changed, his voice was still the same.

“Scythe Faraday?”

She dropped her blade, letting it clatter on the ground, horrified that she had even considered using it on him. When she had last seen him, he was leaving to find the Land of Nod. And this was