The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,186
the plague, but it was always inevitable.
“Can’t you do something about it?” Greyson asked the Thunderhead as the death toll began to roll in.
“This was a scythe action,” the Thunderhead told him. “It was the last scythe action – but I am still unable to interfere. And even if I could, it is simply not my place. I have seen into the heart of these nanites, and they have none. They have no consciousness, conscience, or remorse. They are efficient, impartial, and they have but one purpose: to kill 5% of Earth’s human population, five times a century.”
“So this will end?”
“Yes,” the Thunderhead told him. “This crisis will pass, and once it does, no one will die for twenty years. Then it will happen again. And again.”
And although it sounded terrifying, the math was less awful than it seemed. Someone born today would have a 77% chance of living to one hundred. A 60% chance of living to two hundred. 46% to three hundred. The population would be controlled, and almost everyone would live long and healthy lives. Until they didn’t.
Was it better than scythes? Well, Greyson guessed it depended on the scythe. Either way it didn’t matter, since every scythe was basically fired.
“There have still been some killings,” the Thunderhead told him – no longer calling them gleanings. “Some scythes can’t quite adapt and are killing people who the nanites have not selected. I will, of course, revive their victims, and rehabilitate the scythes. They will need to find a new purpose. Indeed, some have already found a way to fit within this new paradigm, and it pleases me.”
Greyson and Jeri chose to stay, for the time being, in Kwajalein. There was nothing left of the homes and structures on many of the islands. In time wildlife and foliage would return, but in the meantime, there were still some islands that never saw construction and remained untouched. And there was also that vacant resort on Ebadon – the westernmost island, where no ship had been built. It was already beginning to attract people who were making a pilgrimage to see where it all happened. Not to mention the Tonists who came to view “the great fork” with their own eyes – which is what they were calling the transmitter that still protruded from the old bunker.
Perhaps, Greyson thought, he’d take a job at the resort, because unlike Anastasia and Scythe Lucifer, no one knew his face. After all the things he’d seen and done, he wouldn’t mind a simple life as a tour guide, or a desk clerk, or a water-taxi pilot. Anything but a bellhop. He was done with odd uniforms.
But he did realize that some basic things would need to change. One thing in particular. The Thunderhead knew him well, so maybe it already knew what he was about to do.
Two weeks after the ships launched and the scythe rings broke, Greyson stood alone on a charred launchpad as the sun rose, and put in his earpiece. With the transmitter shut down, all interference was gone. The blind spot was fully within the Thunderhead’s sphere of influence now. Nothing was hidden from it.
“Thunderhead,” Greyson said. “We need to talk.”
It took a moment before answering. “I am listening, Greyson.”
“Since the day you began speaking to me again, I gave you permission to use me any way you needed to.”
“Yes, you did. And I thank you for that.”
“But you used Jeri without permission.”
“It was necessary,” the Thunderhead said. “And I am genuinely sorry. Have I not expressed sufficient remorse?”
“You have. But there are still consequences. Even for necessary things.”
“I broke none of my laws…”
“No … but you broke mine.”
A sudden surge of emotion welled up in Greyson. Tears began to cloud his eyes, reminding him how much the Thunderhead had meant, and still did mean, to him. But he could not let that stop him. If there was anything he’d learned from the Thunderhead, it was that consequences could not be ignored.
“Therefore,” he said through his tears, “I can no longer speak to you. You are … unsavory to me.”
The Thunderhead’s voice became slow. Thick. Mournful. “I … I understand,” it said. “Might I ever be redeemed in your eyes, Greyson?”
“When will humanity be redeemed in yours?” he asked.
“In time,” said the Thunderhead.
Greyson nodded his agreement. “In time, then.”
And before he could change his mind, or either of them could say farewell, Greyson removed his earpiece and crushed it on the charred ground.