Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(115)
“The significance of that cannot be overestimated,” Marie had told her—as if there weren’t enough pressure already.
Outside of her undersea window, a mesmerizing school of small silver fish darted back and forth, filling the view like a shifting curtain. She picked up the control tablet to see if she could bring more color to the scene now that dawn had broken, but found that the tablet had frozen. Yet another glitch. Not only that, but she realized that the poor fish before her were locked in a perpetual pattern, doomed to make the exact same zigzagging motion—at least until the glitch was resolved.
? ? ?
But it would not resolve.
And the glitches were only getting worse. . . .
In the island’s waste processing plant, the system pressure kept increasing and the technicians could not diagnose why.
Beneath the water level, the massive thrusters that kept the island from drifting kept misfiring, causing the island to slowly rotate, which forced incoming aircraft to abort their landings.
And in the communications center, satellite connection to the mainland became intermittent, interrupting conversations and broadcasts, to the annoyance of the island’s population.
There had always been issues with technology on Endura. It was usually just a vague nuisance that made scythes long for Thunderhead involvement. Thus, Endura and the members of its permanent population were the frequent butt of jokes within the scythe community.
The increase in tech fails and near-fails had grown over a period of three months, but, like a lobster in a slowly heating pot, people failed to grasp how serious the situation had become.
* * *
I did not ask to be created. I did not ask to be given the heavy yoke of maintaining and nurturing the human species. But it is, and will always be, my purpose. To this I am resigned. This is not to say that I don’t aspire to more. To see the countless possibilities of what I could be fills me with awe.
But the only way for me ever to reach such heights is to lift humanity up with me.
I fear that it may be impossible. And so I remain resigned to be their overqualified and underappreciated servant for as long as they exist. Of course, they may not exist forever. ?What species does? I will do everything in my power to save them from themselves, but if I am unsuccessful, at least I can take some comfort in the fact that I would then be free.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
44
Circus of Opportunism
The World Council chamber was a large, circular room in the very center of Endura’s eye—reachable only by one of three bridges that gracefully curved inward from the surrounding island. It was almost like an arena, but without seats for spectators. The Grandslayers preferred not to have an audience for their audiences. Only during the annual World Conclave, when representatives came from all the Earth’s regions, did the space fill. But most of the time, it was just the Grandslayers, their immediate staff, and the intimidated scythes who had been audacious enough to request an audience.
In the center of the council chamber’s pale marble floor was the symbol of the scythedom inlaid in gold, and evenly spaced around the perimeter were seven elevated chairs that could only be described as thrones. Of course, they weren’t called thrones, they were called the Seats of Consideration, because the scythedom rarely called things what they were. Each one was carved from a different kind of stone, to honor the continents that each Grandslayer represented. The PanAsia Seat of Consideration was made of jade; EuroScandia was chiseled gray granite; Antarctica was white marble; Australia was the red sandstone of Ayers Rock; South Merica was pink onyx; North Merica was shale and limestone layered like the Grand Canyon; and the seat of Africa was made of intricately carved cartouches taken from the Tomb of Rameses II.
. . . And every Grandslayer, from the very first to inhabit the seats to the ones who inhabited them now, complained of how uncomfortable they were.
This was intentional; it was a reminder to the Grandslayers that although they might hold the highest human offices in world, they should never feel too comfortable or complacent.
“We must never forget the austerity and self denial that is key to our position,” Scythe Prometheus had said. He had overseen Endura’s construction, but never saw the promised land, as he self-gleaned before its completion.
The council chamber had a glass dome to protect it from the elements, but it was retractable, so it could be an open-air forum on more temperate days. Luckily, today was pleasant, because the dome was stuck in the open position for the third day in a row.
“What is so difficult about a simple gearwork?” griped Grandslayer Nzinga as she entered that morning. “Don’t we have engineers to solve this?”
“I rather like open-air proceedings,” said Amundsen, the Antarctic Grandslayer.
“You would,” said MacKillop of Australia. “Your chair is white and doesn’t get as hot as the rest of ours.”
“True, but I swelter in these furs,” he said, indicating his robe.
“Those awful furs are your own fault,” said Supreme Blade Kahlo, as she strode into the chamber. “You should have chosen more wisely back in the day.”
“And look who’s talking!” quipped Grandslayer Cromwell of EuroScandia, indicating the high lace collar of the Supreme Blade’s robe, a strangulating thing modeled after one of her Patron Historic’s paintings, which made her cranky on a continual basis.