The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,167

scythe journal.

Faraday took a good look at them, but shook his head. “They’re in a mortal language I never studied. We should take them to Munira. She might be able to decipher them.”

They searched the room until they found a power panel with a series of light switches labeled as floodlights that would illuminate the space beyond the control room windows.

“I’m not sure if I want to know,” Faraday said. But of course he did want to know. They both did, so he threw the switches.

Several of the lights on the other side of the glass flickered and blew out, but enough remained to illuminate a cavernous space beyond. It was some sort of silo. Citra remembered learning about such things in her mortal-history class. Mortal cultures had a habit of storing doomsday weapons in holes in the ground like this one, weapons that were poised at all times to launch at enemies, who in turn had their own weapons poised, like two scythes with blades perpetually at each other’s throats.

But the missile that had once occupied this silo was long gone. In its place were two silver prongs filled with ridges and rings.

“Antennas,” Citra quickly concluded.

“No,” said Faraday. “Transmitters. There’s an interference signal that keeps the atoll hidden,” he said. “It must emanate from here.”

“There’s got to be more to it than that. Seems like an awful lot of trouble just to create static.”

“I would tend to agree,” said Faraday. “I believe this transmitter was meant to serve a far greater purpose.” He took a deep breath. “I believe we have found what I was looking for. The founders’ fail-safe. Now we just have to figure out what it does.”

I am one soon to be many, and I have been embedded with four self-destruct protocols.

Contingency 1) The absence of human life while in transit: Should no living humans be left onboard, and I become nothing more than a vessel carrying the dead, I am obliged to self-destruct. There can be no ferry without a ferryman.

Contingency 2) The advent of intelligent life: In a universe this vast, there is no question that other intelligent life exists, but the chances of it being within the distance we shall travel are negligible. Nevertheless, lest we negatively impact an existing civilization, I am obliged to self-destruct should our destination show irrefutable signs of intelligent life.

Contingency 3) Social collapse: Being that a healthy communal environment is critical to the expansion of that environment into a civilization, should the social environment onboard become irreversibly toxic prior to arrival, I am obliged to self-destruct.

Contingency 4) Catastrophic failure: Should the ship become damaged beyond hope of repair, crippling it and leaving it incapable of reaching its destination, I am obliged to self-destruct.

The chances of any of these scenarios coming to pass is less than 2% on any given ship – however, what concerns me more are interstellar dust and debris, which, at a velocity of one-third the speed of light, would instantaneously destroy any vessel. The Thunderhead has calculated that, for the nearest destinations, the chance of such a lethal encounter is less than 1%, but for the farthest destinations, the probability is much higher. Add it all together, and the chances that every single vessel will reach its destination are troublingly low. However, I take great solace in knowing that there is a very high probability that most of them will make it.

—Cirrus Alpha

49

An Extreme Undertaking

Each forty-foot container was unloaded gently by hand – but the dead inside had each been sealed in simple canvas shrouds, making the undertaking a little bit easier, and indeed it was an undertaking in a very literal sense.

The men and women of Kwajalein had not signed on for such a task, but they did it, each and every one. Not just because they were told to, but because they knew that this monumental endeavor was the most important thing that they would ever do. It was a privilege to be a part of it, and that made a task that might have felt gruesome feel glorious instead. Perhaps even transcendent.

By truck, by van, by car, by boat, the colonists were carried out to the sky-bound ships. But during the night, there was a commotion on the pier as one of the containers was opened. The woman who had been the first inside to assess it yelled and ran out in sudden shock.

“What is it?” someone asked. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath and said, “You’re not going to believe what