The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,185

She was easy to find. He wanted to touch her, but his gloves were thick, and he didn’t want to feel how hard she’d become within her shroud. He lay down near where she had been placed.

He could let it happen slowly. Just let his oxygen run out. But hadn’t Citra said when they were in the vault that oxygen deprivation was worse than hypothermia? Hypothermia was only bad until you stopped shivering and gave in to the wave of exhaustion. This wouldn’t be death by hypothermia, though – not in the traditional sense. When he opened his face mask, he would asphyxiate and freeze all in the same moments. He didn’t know whether or not it would be painful, but it would be quick.

He lay there for a good long time. He was not afraid of this. There wasn’t a thing about death that frightened him anymore. What kept sticking in his mind was Citra. She wouldn’t want him to do this – in fact, she’d be furious. She would want him to be stronger. So he stayed there for the better part of an hour, reaching for the button to open his face mask, and then taking his hand away again and again.

Then finally he stood up, gently touched the edge of Citra’s turquoise shroud, and returned to the realm of the living.

“What are our chances of making it there?” Rowan asked Cirrus.

“Very favorable,” Cirrus told him. “94.2 percent. 94.8, now that you’ve decided to remain alive.”

“Good,” said Rowan. “Here’s how this is going to work. I will stay alive for the full 117 years without turning a single corner.”

“Difficult, but it can be done. You’ll need nanite infusions and constant monitoring toward the end.”

“Then,” continued Rowan, “when you revive her, I will turn the corner. You will set me back to the age I am right now.”

“That won’t be a problem at all. Although after 117 years, your feelings may change.”

“They won’t,” said Rowan.

“Conceded,” said Cirrus. “It’s just as likely that they won’t. And maintaining your devotion might even make you a more effective leader!”

Rowan sat down. He was the only one on the flight deck. No one needed to be here anymore. The others, whoever they were, were getting to know one another and the ship. Everyone coming to terms with the limited environment to which they’d have to adapt.

“I believe,” said Cirrus, “that you and I are going to be great friends.”

“I despise you,” said Rowan.

“Now you do, yes,” said Cirrus, “but remember: I know you, Rowan. There’s a very high probability that your hatred won’t last.”

“But in the meantime,” said Rowan, “I’m really enjoying hating you.”

“I completely understand.”

Which only made Rowan hate Cirrus all the more.

It is my sad duty to inform you that High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica has fallen to what can only be described as a pox. Overblade Goddard’s continued absence suggests that he, too, has been lost. In light of that, I hereby withdraw WestMerica from the North Merican Allied Scythedom, so that we may tend to our own dead.

While it would be tempting to blame Tonists for this global attack, or even the Thunderhead itself, evidence has surfaced in the form of lost writings from Scythe Da Vinci, suggesting that this event might be the mythic fail-safe of the founding scythes. If so, I can’t imagine what they were thinking, and frankly, I’m too weary to try.

To those who are suffering, I wish you a quick passage. To those of us who remain, I wish you solace, and the hope that our shared grief will draw all of humankind closer to one another.

—Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, September 16th, Year of the Cobra

53

The Paths of Pain and Mercy

They came to be known as “the ten plagues,” for the founding scythes had developed malicious nanites engineered to imitate nature. They mimicked the symptoms and ravages of ten mortal diseases. Pneumonia, heart disease, stroke, cancer, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, influenza, bubonic plague, and malaria. They were there all along in the dark hearts of the scythe gems – gems that could only be broken from the inside when the nanites within were activated.

It only took a few days for the entire world to be infected. Even so, the malicious nanites remained completely dormant in most people. Only one in twenty developed symptoms – but if you were one of the unlucky ones, there was no hope of recovery. Death was either quick or prolonged, depending on the nature of