The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,9
crew called their captain Jeri – that was reserved for friends and family. But Jerico allowed it.
The Spence surged forward at full speed, and the other ship did move, but only when it became clear that the Spence would truly ram her if it didn’t. It was a game of chicken handily won.
“Position us dead center,” Jerico instructed as they crossed into the Perimeter of Reverence. “Then notify the other ships that they can join us. At 06:00 tomorrow, salvage crews can begin sending drones down to survey the wreckage. Tell them that all information is to be shared, and anyone caught withholding information is subject to gleaning.”
Possuelo raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking for the scythedom now, Captain?”
“Just trying to ensure compliance,” Jerico said. “After all, everyone’s subject to gleaning, so I’m not telling them something they don’t already know – I’m just putting it into a new perspective.”
Possuelo laughed out loud. “Your audacity reminds me of a junior scythe I used to know.”
“Used to?”
Possuelo sighed. “Scythe Anastasia. She perished along with her mentor, Scythe Curie, when Endura sank.”
“Well,” said Jerico, “perhaps whatever we raise from the depths can bring her some peace.”
We have wished Scythes Anastasia and Curie luck on their trip to Endura and the inquest against Goddard. I can only hope that the Grandslayers, in their wisdom, will disqualify him, thereby ending his bid for High Blade. As for Munira and me, we must travel halfway around the world to find the answers we seek.
My faith in this perfect world now hangs by the final thread of a fraying tether. That which was perfect will not remain so for long. Not while our own flaws fill the cracks and crevices, eroding all that we have labored to create.
Only the Thunderhead is beyond reproach, but I do not know its mind. I share none of its thoughts, for I am a scythe, and the Thunderhead’s realm is beyond my reach, just as my solemn work is outside of its global jurisdiction.
The founding scythes feared our own hubris – feared that we couldn’t maintain the virtue, selflessness, and honor that our job as scythes requires. They worried that we might grow so full of ourselves – so bloated by our own enlightenment – that we would, like Icarus, fly too close to the sun.
For more than two hundred years we have proved ourselves worthy. We have lived up to their grand expectations. But things have changed in the blink of an eye.
There is, I know, a fail-safe left by the founding scythes. A contingency should the scythedom fail. But if I find it, will I have the courage to take action?
—From the “postmortem” journal of
Scythe Michael Faraday,
March 31st, Year of the Raptor
3
An Invigorating Way to Start One’s Week
On the day that Endura sank, a small, off-grid plane flew to a place that didn’t exist.
Munira Atrushi, a former night librarian at the Great Library of Alexandria, was the passenger. Scythe Michael Faraday was the pilot.
“I learned to pilot aircraft in my early years as a scythe,” Faraday told her. “I find that flying a plane is calming. It brings one’s mind to a different, more peaceful place.”
That might work for him, but apparently it didn’t work for passengers, because every bump had Munira white-knuckling her seat.
Munira was never a fan of air travel. Yes, it was perfectly safe, and no one had been known to be permanently killed by an airplane. The one post-mortal incident on record took place more than fifty years before she was born, involving a passenger liner that had the profoundly bad luck to be struck by a meteorite.
The Thunderhead immediately ejected all the passengers to avoid the inevitable crash and burn. Instead, they were quickly rendered deadish by the rarefied air at cruising altitude. Within seconds they were frozen solid by the cold and fell to the forest far below. Ambudrones were dispatched even before they landed, and recovered each and every body within an hour. They were brought to revival centers, and in a couple of days they happily boarded a new flight to their destination.
“An invigorating way to start one’s week,” one of the passengers had quipped in an interview.
Be that as it may, Munira still did not like planes. She knew her fear was completely irrational. Or at least it had been irrational until Scythe Faraday pointed out that once they crossed out of known airspace, they’d be