Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(102)

“Ah. That’s Tonist code for, ‘Leave me the hell alone,’?” Curate Mendoza says. “You might also try, ‘I wish to ponder the resonance.’ That works just as well.”

He leaves Greyson, closing the doors to the chapel. I pull closer focus on Greyson once the curate is gone, hoping to read something in his face. I do not have the ability to read minds. I could develop technology to do so, but by its very nature, it would cross the line into personal intrusion. But at times like this, I wish that I could do more than just observe. I wish I could commune.

And then Greyson begins to speak. To me.

“I know you’re watching,” he says to the empty chapel. “I know you’re listening. I know you’ve seen all that’s happened to me these past few months.”

He pauses. I remain silent. It is not by choice.

He closes his eyes, which now spill tears, and in desperation reminiscent of prayer, implores me. “Please let me know you’re still there,” he begs. “I need to know you haven’t forgotten me. Please, Thunderhead . . .”

But his ID still flashes the red U. His unsavory designation carries a minimum four-month term, and I cannot answer him. I am bound by my own laws.

“Please,” he begs, his tears overwhelming his emotional nanites’ attempt to ease his distress. “Please give me a sign. That’s all I ask. Just a sign that you haven’t abandoned me.”

And then I realize that, although there is a law against my direct communication with an unsavory, I do not have a law against signs and wonders.

“Please . . . ,” he begs.

And so I oblige. I reach out into the electrical grid, and douse the lights. Not just in the chapel, but throughout all of ?Wichita. The lights of the city blink for 1.3 seconds. All for the benefit of Greyson Tolliver. To prove beyond a shadow of doubt how much I care, and how heartbroken I would be for all he has suffered, if I had a heart capable of such malfunction.

But Greyson Tolliver does not know. He does not see . . . because his eyes are shut too tightly to know anything beyond his own anguish.





Part Six


ENDURA AND NOD





* * *




The Island of the Enduring Heart—also known as Endura—is a towering achievement of human engineering. And when I say human, I mean just that. ?While it was constructed using technologies that I pioneered, it was designed and built entirely by human hands, with no interference from me. I suppose it was a matter of pride for the scythedom that it could create such a wondrous place on its own.

And, as one might expect, it is a monument to the scythedom’s collective ego. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. ?There is something to be said for the architecture of anima—structures conceived in the furnace of biological passions. They have an audacious sensibility that is breathtaking and impressive, even while being somewhat offensive.

The floating island, positioned in the Atlantic, southeast of the Sargasso Sea and midway between Africa and the Mericas, is more like a massive vessel than a feature of geography. It has a circular structure, four kilometers in diameter, full of gleaming spires, lush parks, and spectacular water features. From above, it resembles the scythedom’s symbol: the unblinking eye between long, curved blades.

I have no cameras on Endura. This is intentional—a necessary consequence of the Separation of Scythe and State. While I have buoy-cams stationed throughout the Atlantic, the closest ones are twenty miles from Endura’s shore. I see the island from a distance. Therefore, all I truly know about Endura is what goes in, and what comes out.

—The Thunderhead



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39


A Predatory View


Scythes Anastasia and Curie arrived on one of the scythedom’s luxurious private jets that was richly appointed, and seemed more like a tubular chalet than an airplane.

“A gift from some aircraft manufacturer,” Scythe Curie explained. “The scythedom even gets its planes for free.”

Their approach pattern took them in an arc around the floating isle, giving Anastasia a stunning view. Everything that wasn’t gorgeous gardens was glistening crystal and bright titanium-white buildings. There was a huge circular lagoon in the center of the island, open to the sea. ?The island’s “eye.” It was the arrival point for submersible transports, and was full of pleasure craft. In the center of the eye, set apart from everything else, was the World Scythe Council complex, connected to the mainland around it by three bridges.

“It’s even more impressive than the pictures,” Anastasia commented.

Scythe Curie leaned over to look out of the window, as well. “As many times as I’ve been here, Endura never ceases to amaze me.”

“How often have you been here?”

“Perhaps a dozen times. Vacation mostly. It’s a place to come where no one looks at us strangely. No one fears us. We aren’t the immediate center of attention when we walk into a room. In Endura, we get to be human beings again.” Although Scythe Anastasia suspected that even in Endura, the Granddame of Death was a bit of a celebrity.

The tallest tower, set apart on its own hill, Scythe Curie explained, was the Founder’s Tower. “It’s where you’ll find the Museum of the Scythedom, with the Vault of ?Relics and Futures, as well as the very heart for which the island is named.”