The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,169
Munira found she couldn’t look at Anastasia directly for fear that her fury would be written on her face in a language Anastasia could easily understand. How could they have done this? They opened the door in the bunker, went inside, and Munira was excluded. Because she wasn’t a scythe.
“I’ll need some time to translate it,” she told them.
“We don’t have time.”
“Then give it to the Thunderhead.” Which of course was not possible.
To Munira, this was a betrayal, and yet the wise and honorable Scythe Michael Faraday still couldn’t see it. Because when it came to people, he had no wisdom at all. He could have come for her – could have brought her there to be with him when they finally unsealed that door they’d been waiting three years to open. But no.
Munira knew it was petty, she knew she was being childish, but it hurt. It hurt more than all the times Faraday had dismissed her out of hand and told her to leave his pathetic little island. That room was the reason she had come, and they went in without her.
“I’m glad that you’ve been reunited,” she told them. “I’m glad that you found what you were looking for. But it’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t work well under pressure. Come back in the morning.”
Then she took the pages, went into her bedroom, and closed the door. Only when she knew they had left did she start to decipher Da Vinci’s writings.
“Please,” Astrid begged, “if you have any mercy, you won’t do this!”
The others had left. Gone to grapple on their own with the decision ahead of them. Cirrus invited them to be part of the crew of whichever ship they chose. No one was forced to go, but no one would be denied.
“It’s not about mercy,” Cirrus calmly explained. “It’s about creating the best possible odds for the future of humankind.”
Astrid didn’t know which she hated more, Cirrus’s logic or its calm, considered delivery. “Some things are more important than odds and probabilities!”
“Think of what you’re saying, Astrid. You would intentionally hurt humanity’s chances in order to ease your own suffering over our decision. How could you be so selfish?”
“Selfish? I have devoted my life to the Tone! I have done nothing for myself! Nothing!”
“That’s not healthy, either,” Cirrus told her. “For human beings, a balance between altruism and self-care is called for.”
Astrid growled in frustration, but knew that wouldn’t help. Cirrus, like the Thunderhead, could not lose an argument unless it chose to. What she needed to do was make it want to lose.
“One ship,” Astrid begged, her plea moving from desperate to impassioned. “One ship, that’s all I’m asking. I know that the Thunderhead knows best. I know that its decisions are the correct ones. But I also know that there’s always more than one correct choice.”
“This is true,” said Cirrus.
“Everything resonates – you said so yourself – which means that somehow we resonate. Tonists resonate. The things we believe, the things we hold true, have a right to endure.”
“Take heart, Astrid,” Cirrus said. “The purge will end. We predict that Tonism will continue to thrive on Earth in spite of the scythedom’s attempts to eradicate it.”
“But don’t we also have the right to a presence in the stars? Yes, you’re right – we don’t integrate well with others, but we don’t have to if the entire colony is made up of Tonists. Throughout history, people have sailed impossible expanses and faced great dangers to find religious freedom. Why would you and the Thunderhead deny us that? Let the dead on one ship retain their identities when they’re revived, and you will be resonating with history.”
Cirrus took a long pause. Astrid tried to bring her breathing under control. Finally, Cirrus said, “You make a point worth considering. I will consult with the Thunderhead.”
Astrid nearly swooned with relief. “Thank you! Thank you! Take all the time you need. Think it through, weigh the different—”
“We have consulted,” said Cirrus. “And we have come to a decision.”
Scythe Morrison stood on a bluff at the base of the Viewhouse, watching the shrouds being carried up the gantry tower of the nearest ship. The Toll and Jerico had gone to look for Anastasia. Astrid was off groveling somewhere before Cirrus. And Morrison was left to wrestle with himself. He hated doing that, because he was a formidable opponent. Should he accept Cirrus’s invitation, or should he stay on Earth?
To say he was an indecisive man was an understatement.