The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,8
remained resolutely closed.
Without the Grandslayers of the World Scythe Council, there was no one in the world who could authorize a salvage. And with Goddard raving in North Merica that the Perimeter of Reverence not be breached, Endura’s ruins remained in limbo. Meanwhile, various regional scythedoms that had aligned with Goddard patrolled the perimeter, gleaning anyone caught there. Endura sank in water two miles deep, but it might as well have been lost in the space between stars.
With all that intrigue, it had taken quite a while for any regional scythedom to dredge up the nerve to attempt a salvage, and as soon as Amazonia declared its intention, others joined in – but since Amazonia was the first to stick its neck out, it insisted on being in charge. Other scythedoms squawked, but no one denied Amazonia. Mainly because it meant the region would bear the brunt of Goddard’s anger.
“You do realize that our current heading is more than a few degrees off course,” Chief Wharton pointed out to the captain, now that Possuelo was no longer on the bridge.
“We’ll correct course at noon,” Jerico told him. “It will delay our arrival by a few hours. Nothing more awkward than arriving too late in the day to begin operations, but too early to call it a night.”
“Good thinking, sir,” Wharton said, then took a quick glance outside and corrected himself, a bit abashedly. “I’m sorry, ma’am, my mistake. It was cloudy just a moment ago.”
“No need to apologize, Wharton,” Jerico said. “I don’t care either way – especially on a day when there’s as much sunshine as cloud cover.”
Jerico would have smirked, but that would have been disrespectful to Wharton, whose apology, although unnecessary, was genuine. While it was a mariner’s job to mark the position of the sun and stars, they were simply not accustomed to meteorological fluidity.
Jerico was from Madagascar – one of the world’s seven Charter Regions, where the Thunderhead employed different social structures to better the human experience – and people flocked to Madagascar because of the popular uniqueness of its mandate.
All children in Madagascar were raised genderless and forbidden to choose a gender until reaching adulthood. Even then, many didn’t choose a single state of being. Some, like Jerico, found fluidity to be their nature.
“I feel like a woman beneath the sun and the stars. I feel like a man under the cover of clouds,” Jerico had explained to the crew when assuming command. “A simple glance at the skies will let you know how to address me at any given time.”
It wasn’t the fluidity that stymied the crew – that was common enough – but they had trouble getting used to the meteorological aspect of Jerico’s personal system. Having been raised in a place where such things were the norm rather than the exception, it never even occurred to Jerico that it could be an issue, until leaving home. Some things simply made a person feel feminine; other things made a person feel masculine. Wasn’t that true of everyone regardless of gender? Or did binaries deny themselves the things that didn’t fit the mold? Well, regardless, Jerico found the faux pas and overcompensations more humorous than anything else.
“How many other salvage teams do you think will be there?” Jerico asked Wharton.
“Dozens,” said Wharton. “And more on the way. We’re already late to the party.”
Jerico dismissed the notion. “Not at all. We’re carrying the scythe in charge, which means we’re the flagship of the operation. The party can’t start until we get there – and I intend to make a grand entrance.”
“I have no doubt of that, sir,” said Wharton, because the sun had slipped behind a cloud.
At sunset, the Spence neared the spot where the Island of the Enduring Heart had sunk.
“There are seventy-three ships of various classes waiting just outside the Perimeter of Reverence,” Chief Wharton informed Captain Soberanis.
Scythe Possuelo couldn’t hide his distaste. “They’re no better than the sharks that devoured the Grandslayers.”
As they began to pass the outermost vessels, Jerico noted a ship much larger than the Spence directly in their path.
“We’ll plot a course around her,” said Wharton.
“No,” said Jerico. “Maintain our current heading.”
Wharton looked worried. “We’ll ram her.”
Jerico gave him a wicked grin. “Then she’ll have to move.”
Possuelo smiled. “And this will make clear from the beginning who is in charge of this operation,” he said. “I like your instincts, Jeri.”
Wharton darted a glance at Jerico. Out of respect, no one on the