Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(10)

“One can never truly master the art of driving, because no journey is ever exactly the same,” Scythe Curie told her. “But once you’ve gained proficiency, it can be rewarding—freeing, even.”

Citra didn’t know if she’d ever reach that point of proficiency. There were simply too many things to focus on all at once. Mirrors and foot pedals and a wheel that, with the mere slip of a finger, could send you sailing off a cliff. What made it worse was that Scythe Curie’s mortal-age sports car was completely off-grid. That meant it could not override a driver’s mistakes. No wonder automobiles killed so many people during the Age of Mortality; without networked computer control they were weapons as deadly as anything scythes used for gleaning. She wondered if there were actually scythes who gleaned by automobile, and then decided she didn’t want to think about it.

Citra knew very few people who could drive. Even the kids back at school who boasted and flaunted their shiny new cars all had self-drivers. To actually operate a motor vehicle in this post-mortal world was as rare as churning one’s own butter.

“We have been driving south for ten minutes,” the car told her. “Do you wish to set a destination at this time?”

“No,” she told it flatly, and continued to look out of the window at the passing highway lights punctuating the darkness. The trip she was about to make would have been so much easier if she could drive herself.

She had even paid visits to several car dealerships, figuring that if she had her own car, she might actually learn to drive it.

Nowhere were the perks of being a scythe more evident than at a car dealership.

“Please, Your Honor, choose one of our high-end vehicles,” the salespeople would say. “Anything you want, it’s yours; our gift to you.”

Just as scythes were above the law, they were above the need for money because they were freely given anything they needed. For a car company, the publicity of having a scythe choose their car was worth more than the vehicle itself.

Everywhere she had gone, they had wanted her to choose something showy that would turn heads when she drove down the street.

“A scythe should leave an impressive social footprint,” one snooty salesman told her. “Everyone should know when you pass that a woman of profound honor and responsibility rides within.”

In the end she decided to wait, because the last thing she wanted was an impressive social footprint.

She took some time to pull out her journal and write her obligatory account of the day’s gleaning. Then, twenty minutes later, she saw signs for a rest stop ahead, and told the car to pull off the highway, which it obediently did. Once the car had stopped, she took a deep breath and put in a call to Scythe Curie, letting her know that she would not be home tonight.

“The drive is just too long, and you know I can never sleep in a publicar.”

“You don’t need to call me, dear,” Marie told her. “It’s not like I sit up wringing my hands over you.”

“Old habits die hard,” Anastasia said. Besides, she knew that Marie actually did worry. Not so much that anything would happen to her, but that she would work herself too hard.

“You should do more gleanings closer to home,” Marie said, for the umpteenth time. But Fallingwater, the magnificent architectural oddity in which they lived, was deep in the woods, on the very eastern edge of MidMerica, which meant if they didn’t extend their reach, they’d over-glean their local communities.

“What you really mean is that I should do more traveling with you, instead of on my own.”

Marie laughed. “You’re right about that.”

“I promise next week we’ll go gleaning together,” and Anastasia meant it. She had come to enjoy her time with Scythe Curie—both down time, and gleaning. As a junior scythe, Anastasia could have worked under any scythe who would have her—and many had offered—but there was a rapport she had with Scythe Curie that made the job of gleaning a little more bearable.

“Stay someplace warm tonight, dear,” Marie told her. “You don’t want to go overtaxing your health nanites.”

Citra waited a whole minute after hanging up before she got out of the car—as if Marie might know she was up to something even after she ended the call.

“Will you be returning to continue your voyage south?” the car asked.

“Yes,” she told it. “Wait for me.”

“Will you have a destination, then?”

“I will.”

The rest stop was mostly deserted at this late time of night. A skeleton crew staffed the twenty-four-hour food concessions and recharging stations. The restroom area was well-lit and clean. She moved quickly toward it. The night was chilly, but her robe had heating cells that kept her warm without needing a heavy coat.

No one was watching her—at least no human eyes. She couldn’t help but be aware, however, of the Thunderhead’s cameras swiveling on light posts, tracking her all the way from her car to the restroom. It might not have been in the car with her, but it knew where she was. And maybe even what she intended to do.

In a bathroom stall, she changed out of her turquoise robe, matching undertunic and leggings—all custom made for her—and put on ordinary street clothes that she had hidden in her robe. She had to fight the shame of doing so. It was a point of pride among scythes never to wear clothes other than their official scythe garb.