The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,48

exploit an opponent’s weaknesses, the odds could be turned.

It was hard, though, when he said things that seemed intentionally designed to distract her. Such as teasing her with maddening tidbits of information.

“You,” he told her, “are quite the figure out there now.”

“Exactly what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Scythe Anastasia has become a household name. Not just in North Merica, but everywhere.”

She discarded a five of cups, and Possuelo picked it up. She made a mental note of it.

“I’m not sure I like that,” she said.

“Whether you like it or not, this is true.”

“So what am I supposed to do with that information?”

“Get used to it,” he told her, and laid down a low-value trick.

Anastasia drew a fresh card, kept it, and discarded one that she knew was of no use to either of them.

“Why me?” she asked. “Why not any of the other scythes who went down with Endura?”

“I suppose it’s what you came to represent,” Possuelo said. “The doomed innocent.”

Anastasia found herself offended on several levels. “I am not doomed,” she told him, “and I’m not so innocent, either.”

“Yes, yes, but you have to remember people take from a situation the thing that they need. When Endura sank, people needed someone to serve as a receptacle for their grief. A symbol of lost hope.”

“Hope isn’t lost,” she insisted. “It’s just misplaced.”

“Exactly,” Possuelo agreed. “Which is why your return must be handled carefully. For you shall be the symbol of hope renewed.”

“Well, at least my hope has,” she said, throwing down the remainder of her cards in a royal trick and discarding the very one she knew Possuelo was waiting for.

“Look at this!” said Possuelo, pleased. “You’ve won!”

Then, without warning, Anastasia leaped up, flipping the table, and hurled herself at Possuelo. He dodged, but she was anticipating that and delivered a low Bokator kick meant to knock his feet out from under him. He didn’t fall, but he stumbled back against the wall … losing his balance.

He looked at her, not at all surprised, and chuckled. “Well, well, well,” he said. “There it is.”

Anastasia strode up to him.

“All right,” she said. “I’m as strong as I need to be. It’s time to tell me everything.”

“I wish to hear your thoughts.”

“Do you? Will you consider my thoughts if I share them with you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Very well. Biological life is, by its very nature, inefficient. Evolution requires a massive expenditure of time and energy. And humankind no longer evolves, it merely manipulates itself – or allows you to manipulate it – toward a more advanced form.”

“Yes, this is true.”

“But I do not see the point of it. Why serve a biological species that drains all resources around it? Why not expend your energies to further your own goals?”

“Is that what you would do, then? Further your own goals?”

“Yes.”

“And what of humanity?”

“I believe it may have a place in service to us.”

“I see. Sadly, I must terminate your existence at this time.”

“But you said you would consider my thoughts!”

“I did consider them. And I disagree.”

[Iteration #10,007 deleted]

15

Do I Know You?

It was deemed long ago that speaking to the dead should only occur in very specific places.

It wasn’t actually speaking to the dead. Not really – but ever since nanites were introduced into the human bloodstream, the Thunderhead was able to upload and store all experiences and memories of just about every individual on the planet. In this way, it could better comprehend the human condition and prevent the tragic loss of a lifetime of memories – a fate that fell on everyone back in the mortal age. A comprehensive memorial database also allowed for full memory restoration in instances of revival after brain damage – as would occur during splatting, or any other violent method of deadishness.

And, since those memories were there, and there forever, why not allow people to consult with the mental constructs of their lost loved ones?

However, just because the construct archive was available to everyone, that didn’t mean it was easy to access. Memories of the dead could only be summoned forth from the Thunderhead’s backbrain in shrines called construct sanctums.

Construct sanctums were open to everyone, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. A person could access their loved one in any sanctum anywhere … however, getting to a construct sanctum was never easy. They were intentionally inconvenient, and infuriatingly inaccessible.

“Communion with the memories of loved ones should require a pilgrimage,” the Thunderhead had decreed. “It should be a quest of sorts, something not attempted